by BJ Hoff
He knew that extraordinary powers were at work, that something exceptional was happening. And he knew it had to do with the priests. So he went to them, angrily confronting them with his accusations that they were interfering with the people—his people—and with his magic.
The reply had shaken him, badly. The quiet-voiced Father Ben, a man scarcely half Sandemon’s size, simply gave him a steady look, saying, “Indeed, we are, houngan. We are doing just that. We are binding the evil source of your powers through prayer and the intervention of God’s holy angels. And we will keep right on doing so, for your wickedness is plunging these people into the very pit of hell!”
Furious, Sandemon swore to circumvent their claims of “binding.” Yet every attempt he made to remove these priestly obstacles availed him nothing. He began to feel impotent, a failure.
One day, his owner came looking for him in the stables with astonishing news. He had been hired out—to the priests! Trained in blacksmithing and carpentry, he would be of great assistance, his owner explained, in helping to build a new chapel.
The black man turned toward Lucy now, and she saw that his face was contorted in a futile attempt to smile. “An irony, yes?” he said. “God’s men setting one of the devil’s own to building a house of worship for Him.”
Leaning back against the wall beside the window, he crossed his arms over his chest and continued. “For weeks, then months, I worked alongside these two godly men. The entire time, they were praying for me—they told me so! They would even pray within my hearing. ‘Doing battle for my soul,’ they called it.
“By this time, many of the people had begun to come to the priests, asking them to teach them of the one true God. Little by little, I found myself listening, along with the others. My owner had taught me to read when I was still a boy, and I began to sneak looks into the Holy Bible they left lying among the lumber.”
A ghost of a smile relieved his grave expression as he went on. “One evening, on my way back to the plantation, I found a small, worn copy of the Scriptures—a different copy—tucked into my pack. Right there, alongside the path, I sat down to read. I read so long I was late reporting back and got into trouble with my owner,” he said, still smiling at the memory. “I simply could not put the book down.
“As the days wore on, and I worked side by side with the priests, listening to their teaching, witnessing their love for the people, all the while aware of their prayer efforts in my behalf, I began to ask questions about their faith—their God. And, at last, I was brought into a direct confrontation with the Truth.”
The smile vanished as he continued. “At that point, I became utterly and terribly overwhelmed by the enormity of my sin, the depths of my wickedness. At first I thought to run, to flee the relentless, searching love of the God I now knew to be pursuing me.
“Instead, I went to Father Ben. And this good man, with his infinite patience and gentle kindness, led me very carefully, one step at a time, into the Light. Although for days I seemed to be living in the middle of a battleground, with angels warring against the demons of hell for my soul—for my very life—eventually, thanks to the intercession of the priests and others among the people who had turned to Christ, I was delivered safely into the sheltering arms of the Savior.”
He stopped, raking both sides of his face with his hands for a moment before looking at Lucy. “For a long time after, my life was good. I married a lovely woman who worked in the plantation house, and we had a little daughter—Maya. During that time, I tried, as best I knew how, to make up for some of the evil I had done to my own people. I went among them, with the priests, to teach the Truth and do battle with the darkness for their souls. It did nothing to alleviate my grief at the knowledge that I was the one responsible for their evil enslavement, but it was the only way I knew to give back even a fragment of the love and forgiveness my Savior had given me.”
He was silent for a moment, and his wide shoulders sagged a bit. When he looked at Lucy, she saw that his dark eyes were now glazed with a terrible despair.
“It was no simple matter to come out of the darkness,” he went on. “The new houngan had become enraged by my activities with the priests. He began to fight me with all the magic at his disposal, threatening me and my family, humiliating me in every way possible—he stopped at nothing in his efforts to destroy what the priests and I were trying to do.
“Then one evening…” The black man’s voice faltered. When he finally recovered his composure, his voice sounded strangled. “One evening, I returned late from the work on the chapel. It was dark by the time I reached the plantation. My wife…and my little girl…they were gone.”
Hugging her arms to herself, Lucy held her breath, waiting.
“I found them later,” he said, his voice hoarse and unsteady, “on the beach. Slain. Mutilated.”
Lucy moaned aloud at the agony in his eyes, the sorrow spilling over in his words. Appalled, she saw tears glaze his eyes, then fall slowly down his cheeks, unchecked, as he went on.
“I thought I would go mad. I meant to kill the houngan, to kill myself—” Again he broke off until he recovered. “But the priests and my people stopped me. For days I lay abed, unable to stand upright like a man, unable to do anything but lie weeping for my loss.”
As Lucy stared at him in stunned silence, he straightened. “I have had to live long years with the consequences of my sin,” he said, brushing away the tears with the back of one hand. “For there is no denying the painful truth that sin does bring consequences, often tragedy—to the life of the one who has sinned…and sometimes to his loved ones as well.
“I had been a thoroughly evil man,” he continued in a steady voice, “and it does no good to say that I did not realize the extent of my depravity. While it is true that, for a time, like many of my people, I was almost entirely ignorant of all that was good, even in my darkness I was somehow aware that there was a better way, a way of light and honor and goodness.
“Yet, I would most assuredly have remained as I was…a man completely without hope…had God not made me face my own wickedness—and His goodness.
“By forcing me to confront the evil in my soul, and by allowing me to come in contact with the reality of His love, He changed my heart…and my life.”
He inclined his head slightly. “Perhaps now you can see, Miss Lucy, why I am so utterly convinced that my Lord is the God of new beginnings, the God of new life. Like the great apostle, Paul, I have cried out in the night, ‘O wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me?’ And, like Paul, I can declare that ‘Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am chief!’”
He paused. “I will admit to you, Miss Lucy, that you cannot change your past. You cannot undo whatever bad or harmful things you may have done. Nor will I deny that there may well be consequences, painful ones, as a result of your past.”
He stopped, lifting his chin slightly, looking at Lucy with an expression that was both kind and knowing. “But I can tell you this much: you can change your future. You…and God…can put the past behind you and start over. You can have a new beginning…a new life. Like me, you can be forgiven. Made clean. Changed. I lost my family—a terrible loss, a grief from which I will never be wholly free. Yet, in His mercy, God has given me a new family, here at Nelson Hall, to help ease the pain, to fill and bless my life.”
He nodded, slowly, his eyes soft with great kindness. “You can make new memories, my unhappy friend, that will, in time, enable you to live at peace with the old ones.”
Outside, the thunder had receded to a distant rumble. The lightning had weakened, coming in sporadic flashes. The only sound to break the silence in the room was the gentle patter of rain on the roof and in the trees.
For another moment, the black man stood watching her, his eyes grave. Then, like a storm clearing away from the land, his gaze brightened, until the faintest hint of light smiled out at Lucy.
“Do you know what I think, Miss Lucy? I think that if the c
hapel timbers do not cave in when Sandemon enters, it is not likely that they will give way for you.”
With a small nod, he pushed himself away from the wall and started to cross the room, stopping when he reached Lucy. For a moment he solemnly searched her face. “You need to know that the battle for your soul has already been won. It is left for you only to claim the victory.”
Without another word, he straightened his shoulders and swept out of the room.
Lucy sat, weeping quietly, for what might have been hours…or only moments.
As if in a dream, she heard the rain, saw the candles burning low on the table, tasted the salt of her tears. She spread her hands before her in a gesture of helplessness, then moved to hug her arms to herself to keep her heart from shattering inside her chest.
She stared at the candle nearest her, entranced by the flame. Outside, the wind wailed, causing her to shiver and grip her shoulders even more tightly. The darkness inside her spirit tugged at her mind, her heart, trying to entangle her, suck her into the night…the night inside her soul. But she kept her eyes on the flame, unable to look away.
Slowly, she freed a hand and reached for the candlestick. Staring at the flame, rising and flickering in the draft of the room, she lifted the candle, rose, and started for the door.
As if buoyed by an invisible wind, she walked out of the kitchen and down the hall, stopping at the doors of the chapel.
For a long time she simply stood, staring at the massive closed doors. Then, with the candle held aloft, she reached for the chapel door with her free hand and slowly opened it.
Inside, all was hushed and cool and serenely peaceful. Still, Lucy stood listening, waiting. Finally, she lifted her eyes above, to the roughly hewn timbers that crossed the ceiling.
The candle shook in her trembling hand, the flame flickering precariously. But after a moment it steadied, and a faint smile slowly curved her lips as she stood, unmoving, breathing in the quiet and peace of the chapel.
“You need to know that the battle for your soul has already been won. It is left for you only to claim the victory….”
With her eyes on the light of the candle and Sandemon’s words echoing in her heart, Lucy stepped out and began to walk down the aisle toward the altar.
38
In the Shadow of Five Points
I was the moon.
A shadow hid me
And I knew what it meant
Not to be at all.
RHODA COGHILL (1903–)
Sometime in the night, Kerry Dalton came awake with a chilling sense of impending tragedy.
As she lay listening to the silence of the house, she shuddered, wondering what sort of dream had shaken her so violently from her sleep.
As a Christian, she had forsaken the old superstitions, no longer placed any credence in the mythic world of legend and faery lore that had been a part of her childhood in Ireland. Yet, lying here in the darkness, the shadows of night hovering about her, she could not help but remember the ancient tales of the Banshee and her dread visitations to keen one who is about to die.
Kerry’s family—the clan of O’Neill—ranked among those of Gaelic nobility to whom the Bean Sidhe—the Banshee—would appear in the depths of the night. It was a faery tale, of course—one of the myths of preternatural beings that had evolved from the dark, unknown recesses of time’s beginning.
Kerry instinctively moved closer to Jess’s large, solid warmth. Shivering, she forced down any further thought of unwelcome night visitors. Even so, sleep was a long time returning.
Thoughts of their recent troubles coursed through her: the reality Jess’s resignation from his Fifth Avenue pastorate, the hard feelings of parishioners they had once called their friends, and the somewhat frightening unknown of the future.
Yet, Jess was convinced he had done what he must, and after learning about his disturbing dream, Kerry had no doubts but that he was right. God was calling him away from a ministry to the affluent, commanding him to go to the unwanted of the city.
It was somewhat intimidating, yet at the same time, exciting. To Kerry, it was but one more evidence that the Lord had great faith in her husband, to entrust him with such an enormous challenge.
Jess seemed encouraged. His spirits were brighter than she’d seen them for weeks. For her part, however, Kerry thought it would take a long time before she would completely forget the pain of the past.
It was dark when Arthur sneaked away, but by the time he reached the Five Points, the sun was beginning to come up.
In the first weak light of dawn, the slum looked even uglier than he remembered. Broken bottles and rubbish littered Paradise Square. Pigs rooted through the garbage piled high in the streets, ignoring those drunks who lay sprawled in front of doorways. Already, a few homeless children darted in and out of the alleys, heckling the few honest workers who made their way across the square, heading for the factories.
With the smell of the streets already filling up his nose, Arthur stood, delaying his return as long as possible. He had hoped never to smell the rotten odor of the Five Points again. But he had to stay somewhere, and this was the only place he knew to come.
It occurred to him that Mr. Jess would be waking up just about now. How long would it be before they realized he was gone? By breakfast time, for sure, if not before. Miss Kerry always made him and Casey-Fitz eat their breakfast before going to school.
The thought of them all—even Molly, the sharp-tongued housekeeper and her husband, Mackenzie—made his eyes sting. For a moment, he was tempted to turn around, to take off running as fast as he could and not stop until he reached the Daltons’ house.
Instead, he pulled himself up a little straighter, swallowed down the lump in his throat, and started walking again. He couldn’t go back. He had done enough harm, brought enough trouble on Mr. Jess and his family.
All the hateful things that had been said, the mean way they’d been treated—it had all been because Mr. Jess had defended the Negroes and wanted to help them. Arthur guessed taking him in must have been the last straw.
Now Mr. Jess had resigned from the big church as their preacher and was setting up what he called a “mission pulpit” in the Bowery, and another one here in the Five Points.
Oh, he and Miss Kerry had talked a lot about it being “God’s will,” and that he’d had a “call,” but Arthur was pretty sure that if it hadn’t been for him, things wouldn’t have come to such a sorry place.
Now the family would have to move out of the parsonage and find another house. They’d be leaving the big church and their neighborhood—why, Casey-Fitz might even have to change schools!
And all because of him. Arthur Jackson, a runaway slave boy.
Nossir, he wouldn’t go back. He’d done enough damage. He had made do down here in Five Points before, and he’d make do again.
Hiking his stick a little higher on his shoulder, Arthur jumped across a mud puddle and started toward Cow Bay. He’d go back to the Old Brewery, where he’d stayed before. There, one more darkie would never be noticed.
Casey-Fitz’s heart raced as he stood in the middle of Arthur’s bedroom. There was an air of finality about the neatly made bed and the orderly condition of the room’s furnishings. The drapes were still closed against the early morning sun. The pine rocker was bare: no trousers or shirt hung across its back, no shoes or socks rested beneath it.
With his pulse throbbing in his ears, Casey went to the wardrobe and opened the double doors. For a moment he stood appraising the contents.
Arthur seemed to have taken scarcely anything with him. Most of the things they had bought for him still hung in place. The Sunday shoes sat, black and gleaming, right in front, directly under the good gray suit. The freshly laundered shirts and trousers hadn’t been touched. But on the peg inside the door hung a red nightshirt, like a warning.
He was gone.
Not quite able to get bis breath, Casey turned away from the wardrobe, his gaze again sweeping o
ver the silent bedroom. He had been afraid of this very thing.
But Arthur had promised, had given his word that he would not leave. With a sinking feeling, Casey-Fitz remembered his own promise of some months ago: “God and Dad will take care of this,” he’d told his friend. “The two of them will handle everything, you’ll see….
He had believed it then, and, although it was getting much more difficult as the days went on and the trouble mounted, he believed it now. Dad had tried to explain to them all that his resignation was by choice, that he felt good about his decision—“the Lord’s persuasion,” he’d called it.
But Arthur blamed himself. Casey-Fitz had seen it in his averted gaze, his sober expression, his sudden silences.
Slowly, he walked to the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he stopped, turning back to survey the room one more time. Finally, he stepped into the hallway.
Downstairs he heard his parents in the dining room. Any moment now, Little Mother would come to the bottom of the stairs and call him and Arthur to breakfast—the “second and last call,” she would declare.
With heavy steps and an even heavier heart, he started down the stairs, slowly at first, then faster until at last he broke into a run.
When they had found no sign of the boy by midday, Jess Dalton began to feel the first stirrings of fear.
He had been so certain they would find him in the Five Points. That was where he would go, of course; it was the only place Arthur knew, except for the parsonage.
But they had been searching for over three hours, with still no sign of him. Both he and Casey-Fitz had scoured the tenements, trudged through the tramps’ nests, among the blind beggars, the hungry children, the derelicts. They had crossed Paradise Square at least five times.
Jess was grateful he had brought Casey-Fitz with him to the Five Points before today. At least the boy had grown used to the squalor, the filth, the abject misery all around them. Nothing they encountered on their door-to-door search was likely to shock him.