Song of the Shank

by Jeffery Renard Allen

  Yes, prophets must do what they are required to do. You see, Mr. Gross, the great sin of that institution called Slavery is that it fostered the need for a greater sin called Emancipation that tricks the unknowing into the belief that any of us, African or Anglo-Saxon, are free. Man can never be free. At birth, he is firmly tied to his mother through the umbilical cord. And even death does not free him, for his Maker then claims what is rightfully His and assumes charge of his soul.

  Tabbs listens to it all and tries to think through it, hearing (suspecting) something unsaid, that all of this talk about prophets and freedom is, in the end, about Tom.

  We are all bond and must do as we are so scripted to do. Indeed, these Freedmen can’t remain idle, loitering about, seeking handouts, falling into wells. Or all of us here on Edgemere will fall. Jesus came into the world not to condemn. He came to save that which was lost. We are saving the world for the Ethiopian. And we are prepared to move heaven and earth. Conquer the waste places.

  He feels comfortable (admit it) sitting here, listening to Double, gathering his own perspective, but does that he mean he should display his true thoughts before Double in this sparse room with one window and two chairs, pistols on the table and rifles on the walls? No. He should remain silent, refuse communication and hold his feelings within himself, so that Double will know him only as he wants Double to know him.

  There are those who would condemn both you and me for the things we have tried to achieve. But I can hold my head high.

  Tabbs holds his head high.

  In the evening, Ruggles invariably makes an appearance, three or four evenings a week calling on him at Wire’s house. They take seats in the garden, tender evening light falling across the foliage. Share the bottle of sack that Ruggles brings. Ruggles is usually tired after a day’s work and not in the mood for conversation. He will talk only vaguely concerning his day—his affections and irritations—sometimes with rude familiarity. Tabbs appreciates his coming, for there is additional post to be delivered, additional criminals to be had, vigilance to be maintained, but Ruggles chooses to be here with him. Of those things they cannot speak of they simply say nothing. A measure of how far they’ve come.

  Take me to her.

  Mr. Tabbs is away. Two come and get him, struggling from side to side.

  Tom, we thought you would like to help us this Sunday.

  No church music.

  You can play whatever you like.

  No church. Legs dragging.

  Outside light gallops over his body. The church is cool. The organ has a powerful sound, waves rising and falling.

  Reverend Pastor speaks to him. Thank you for coming today, Tom. Jesus rose.

  Yes he did.

  He can smell burning in different parts of the church. God is the Lord of both light and darkness.

  Then he goes on greeting people in the church. I see you two are still without child.

  It is in the works, the husband says.

  All that opens the womb is mine, he says.

  The deacons do the devotion. Then it is Reverend Pastor’s time to speak.

  The Almighty is good. I don’t think you heard me, the Almighty is good.

  Yes.

  He allowed us to get up this morning. I been sick for the past three Sundays. But He lifted my head off my pillow today. Yall gon help me?

  Yes!

  I say, He lifted my head off my pillow today. He made sure I got out of bed this morning. Cause he knew that I had to be with yall today.

  Uh huh.

  Said, I had to be with yall today.

  That’s right.

  It’s Easter Sunday. And the good Lord has brought us someone special today. His parallel is not to be found the world over, nor in any time of which the records are known. He reigns forever in an outlandish wayside temple of his own, full of bright dreams and visions. Brothers and sisters, the Original Blind Tom.

  The two men pull Tom up into the air, three men standing on six feet. He hears the congregation, animal noises. They explode into applause. He takes his bows, one and another and another.

  I thank the Almighty for allowing me to be here today to witness this miracle.

  The two pull him back down, sitting on six feet. Then he tells the two, There ain’t no original.

  You are the original.

  You see, brothers and sisters, the days of miracles are not yet done.

  Preach it!

  You all gon help me this Easter Sunday?

  Yes!

  Take the original out of my name.

  Said, yall gon help me this Sunday?

  Yes!

  We serve a mighty God. I do believe I have some witnesses in the house?

  Yes.

  He gave His only son so that we might be free from death. His only son. And He gave us all gifts. That’s something you got to understand, the Almighty gave us all gifts. And what was Jesus’s gift? Jesus came here to die. And in so dying He opened the cage and made us all free.

  Tom.

  Jesus Christ, the redeemer of man, the center of the universe and of history. His gift was He cheated death. Only Christ’s tomb is empty.

  Amen.

  Tom.

  Now if Christ preached that He rose from the dead, how say some among you that there is no resurrection of the dead? But if there be no resurrection of the dead, then is Christ not risen? And if Christ is not risen, then our preaching is vain, and your faith is vain. Yea, and we are found false witnesses of God, because we have testified of God that He raised up Christ, whom He raised not up, if so be that the dead rise not. For if the dead rise not, then is not Christ raised? And if Christ be not raised, your faith is vain; ye are yet in your sins. Then, they also which are fallen asleep in Christ are perished. If in this life only, we have hope in Christ, we are of all men most miserable.

  You ready to sing?

  No church music.

  Okay.

  Don’t go doubting Jesus’s gift.

  No!

  The Almighty gave each of us a gift. We need to know what our gifts are. And we need to put our gifts to use for God and the church.

  Two deep breaths.

  Some Sundays I can’t wait to get here to church. The sisters look good, they smell good, and what they cook is good. Everything is good.

  Tell it.

  You must have the audacity of hope. Lord, your church often seems like a boat about to sink, a boat taking in water on every side. In Your fields we see more weeds than wheat. And the soiled garments of Your church throw us into confusion. Yet, we got to remember something. It is ourselves who have soiled the garments.

  Preach!

  We put holes in the boat.

  Yes!

  We failed to plant the seeds!

  Ready?

  We can’t go out and change the world until we’re right. He took some breaths. I wish some of you wouldn’t sing in church.

  Ha!

  And I wish some of you wouldn’t cook. You got to know what your gifts are.

  He lets the organ move about the room. And they start in on a hymn. Then it gets quiet again.

  You got to know what your gifts are. You got to put your gifts to use for the church and the nation. And you got to get right.

  The organ speaks.

  There’s a reason that Blind Tim is here in the church this morning. He ain’t here just to sing. Some of you think that. “When is he gon shut up so Tom can sing and play us some piano?”

  Laughter.

  The time has come for us to forget and cast behind us our hero worship and adoration of other races, and to start out immediately to create and emulate heroes of our own. We must canonize our own saints, create our own martyrs, and elevate to positions of fame and honor Ethiopian men and women who have made their distinct contributions to our racial history.

  But I think I said enough. The Almighty has been fortunate enough to bless us with the presence of one of our heroes, the Original Blind Tom.

  The
congregation applauds. Before Tom can take his bows the two walk him on legs to the front and sit him at the piano. He doesn’t touch the keys, just feels the wood beneath his hands. He feels the wood for a long time.

  Play! Play! Play!

  The whole church shouting to the roof, but he keeps feeling the wood. Then Reverend Pastor speaks something and the two walk him on legs to receive the wafer of bread. He takes the thin wafer onto his thick tongue. Take, eat. This is my body.

  Be quiet, Reverend Pastor says, grinding the words through his teeth.

  They put the cold cup to his mouth.

  This is my blood. Drink.

  I am one of the greatest men that ever walked the earth.

  I’m sure you are. Now drink.

  I overcame the earth. Mouth quiet.

  They put the cold cup to his lips, and he sips from the chalice filled with blood.

  The tasteless water of souls.

  What did you say?

  The tasteless water of souls.

  Then the two take him away and sit him. Then the Reverend Pastor. Words fall from his mouth. Ends his sermon with, Become. New or old, become. Citizen or Freedman, become. Change is the only constant. Become. Don’t die. Multiply.

  Let us pray.

  Two men (the same two?) take him outside after his mouth settles down. He says it, word for word. My gift is the peace which I leave unto you. Whoever drinks from my mouth will become like me. I myself shall become that person. He says it again. And again and again.

  Two take him back to the house. Still saying it. Mr. Tabbs isn’t there.

  Stay here, one says, until your tongue gets better.

  I didn’t afford you prayerful consideration, Wire says. I should have sought your permission first, I will admit that. A revolting expression flamed on his face. I’m actually glad he doesn’t play Christian music. Over the years I have given enough to substantiate my claim of precedence for the Almighty’s natural laws and their marvelous, even incomprehensible working, over any so-called supernatural endowment.

  Big sparse drops of rain patter on the window.

  But they already have their Tom, Tabbs says. Haven’t you heard? He doesn’t try to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

  We are a peculiar people, prone to prayer on the one hand, and superstition on the other.

  How do we put an end to this? You have to put an end to it. Speak to Double.

  Double is of different stock. He was born in a white womb.

  Can it be that he and Wire are feeling the same ache?

  The rain stops. There is a smell of donkeys and some other very sweet scent. He can see the stones of the gate, the trees by the window, the dark sea. He feels that everything is looking at him and waiting.

  Yes, things have gotten out of hand. But can you blame us for trying? The essential things in history begin with small convinced communities. So, the church begins with the twelve Apostles. From these small numbers came a radiation of joy in the world.

  But it’s your church, Wire. Why are you giving them, these deacons, this Vigilance Committee, Double—why are you giving them all the power?

  Every church in the South, every church in the city, every church in the nation, indeed every church on earth, must, by and by, become nothing but the church and renounce all other aims that are incompatible with the principles of the church. Our only enemy is sin.

  But it’s your church.

  I know. At least I thought I did. But God has become an exile to Himself. I want to believe that we can save these Freedmen. Lifting as we climb. I want to believe that we can save all of us. But Satan has made his way into our temple through some crack in the roof or some open window.

  Urchins shelter in the lee of a crudely constructed command post, while their cohorts taunt and tease the horses, hitched to posts or braced to wagons along the main street, attempting to blacken hooves with their rags and brushes. The horses jerk in their traces.

  Their loud overjoyed laughter.

  Jay-bird sittin on a swingin limb

  Winked at me and I winked at him

  Up with a rock and struck him on the chin

  God damn yer soul, don’t wink again

  One blacker screams at a cohort, I ain’t tellin, Magellan, then jumps out of reach before the other can connect with a lunging punch. These shoe blackers—audacious, fearless, and self-contained. (Mischief always holds the seeds of further disruption and destruction.) Only yesterday Tabbs had declined their barefoot offers with a quick dismissive wave. Blackers with no shoes themselves. Now one points at him with perfunctory disdain. He sees a second’s brow rise and the corners of his lips fall. The boy who approached Tabbs yesterday seems more relaxed today, the look of panic gone (disappeared) from his face, replaced by a flat hurt look. Tabbs somewhat ashamed of his refusal. He should show the urchin some kindness. The boy looks Tabbs’s way, sees that they know each other. He smiles, the sound of sea waves coming at him clearly from the right, but the latter turns his face away, a quiet face, without any of yesterday’s irritation.

  Tabbs feels he should amend, pay off this small debt. (No, he is not under sway of doing good deeds, nor the motive of unattributable guilt, the erasing of daily sins. Only wants to make penance for yesterday.) Though he believes that begging is undignified, he pulls a dollar from his pocket, silver big and round, and quickly presses it into the boy’s hand. I don’t need the blacking, he says. Share it among you. Only upon his taking his seat at home thirty minutes later does it occur to him that a few coins would have been sufficient, both to feed and to teach the greater lesson.

  Holy bejesus, the boy says.

  Hot damn.

  Hey, what you got?

  Half-change.

  A case quarter.

  Yall niggers don’t know nothing. That’s a dollar bill.

  Gon buy my way into heaven.

  Black-robed deacons approach. The coin-wealthy boy pops alive, sees them, and dashes off. Shiners and dancers alike, a few of his cohorts notice his hasty departure, turn to see the why, and off they swoop. Then the remainder of the group—slow learners—catch wind and rush off at breakneck speed.

  Take me to her.

  I sent her away. And she hasn’t come back. I’m sorry. I sent her to the city.

  I can find her if you take me off the water.

  Tabbs almost laughs.

  Where we were living before.

  What.

  With the piano.

  You’re asking about the Bethune woman?

  Bring me to her.

  Is that who you mean? Tabbs understands. Tom wants the Bethune woman.

  Take me to her.

  Tabbs sees three girls, strays, contraband, dressed in black, seated out in the open, light rising up from under them as if they are sitting on top of blankets of sunlight. As he passes them, a woman comes over to take him by the elbow to halt him. She speaks but he understands nothing of what she is saying in her irritable quick patter.

  Flying their rags at the end of broom handles like the standards of an impoverished army, the shoe blackers shuck and jive. Juba it up, clapping and singing.

  One mornin Massa ready to head out the door

  And gon away

  He went to git his coat

  But neither hat nor coat was there

  For colored gal, she had swallowed up both

  Then took her nap in the chair

  Massa took her to the tailor shop

  To have her mouth made small

  Colored gal took in one breath

  And swallowed ole Massa, tailor and all

  They exhibit many steps strokes lifts without breaking the measure of the music, with high-pitched shouts of A show for your money, a shine for the show.

  Clutching something in his fist, the coin-rich boy holds aloof from the rest in the shadows of a tree. He notices Tabbs—the businesslike usage in his steady gaze—and comes over to him.

  Good day, suh.

  Good day.

 
You not from round here?

  No, I’m not.

  I ain’t either.

  He gives Tabbs an expression that says, We got that in common.

  I’m in need of employment, the boy says.

  I would like to help, but I don’t have any work for you.

  The boy silently closes his eyes and does not say a word more, as if stricken blind and dumb.

  Urchins tussle. Pitch rocks and stones. Spill blood and bones.

  Put your ear to a tombstone and hear the sound of the dead trying to rise. An aphorism that Wire has heard time and again here on Edgemere. But these newly dead have had no stones fashioned for them, only raw fresh graves, one black mound after the next like the shiny backs of so many beetles against the red horizon where a low-hanging sun turns the ocean into a rippled sheet of metal, throwing the shadows of the dhows lining the shore against the sky like so many black nests. None have sailed today, or will sail tomorrow, or take to the ocean the day after that, and many more days perhaps, not now, not after this.

  He stands surveying the widening prospect of the island, children and mules rapidly coming and going in a rattle of speech and chatter between the bodies of the dozens upon dozens of mourners assembled here waiting for Wire to speak. Everything they do is considered, unhurried. He tilts his head as though to shake water out of his ear. He has an accounting to give, but quiet is knotted into his body, already wearied by what he will have to say, tired beyond bearing by all the events that have led to this moment. Wire already hurrying away from the thought before it becomes solid enough to take a grip and summon other thoughts that he has safely penned away …

  Then he hears Double speak. God has three rings: of birth, of death, and of the resurrection of the dead.

  It is Wire’s place to speak, his ordained right, as Double well knows, so in addressing the crowd before Wire has a chance to, Double has supplanted Wire’s authority, no two ways about it.

  But the alabaster has only one, Double says. Death. Their actions have made clear that they will no longer permit us to fish these waters that we have always fished, and in so doing, they mean to starve us.

  Motherfuck them, Ruggles says. Motherfuck every stinking alabaster that some white bitch shat out of her stinking womb.

  You cannot qualify war in harsher terms than this, Double says. War is cruelty, and you cannot refine it.