Song of the Shank

by Jeffery Renard Allen

  They have numbers, Wire says.

  And so do we, even if our numbers are less. Let one man be ten.

  Be careful.

  Brothers, I ask you, is it wrong to ignore the arms and the ammunition that God has entrusted to us? The church can order them to be removed, but nay. Rather let the church hang like Christ on the cross over these boxes of arms and ammunition until the boxes are used.

  Be careful. Think it through. Every man here had better do that. Wire looks at each man in the room.

  Injustice is on the throne, Double says.

  Shit, Ruggles says. You ain’t said nothing.

  They’re shitting on us.

  They can’t help it. It’s in their nature. All a woogie knows.

  Walking all over us. Shitting on us.

  I ain’t never been nobody’s slave. And ain’t gon be.

  Can’t they jus leave us be?

  You’re talking willful destruction, Tabbs says.

  They’re killing us one way or the other. If we must die …

  Walking all over us. Shitting on us.

  They don’t know no other way.

  Be careful.

  Advances only a few yards when he sees the band of shoe blackers, all of them, the youngest and the oldest, fully seated on the ground outside a stone gate. Resting. No, not resting, more as if they are all waiting for something, expecting something. Whispering, nodding, grinning. One urchin looks up and sees Tabbs, then they all begin exchanging excited winks. The last to notice, the coin-rich waif turns his head and falls silent under Tabbs’s gaze. The unmoving darkness of his eyes. He does not look away. Tabbs can see him watching, preparing himself.

  Sir? The boy stands up. Tabbs thinks twice about acknowledging the waif. He should just continue on, walk right past him and wash his hands once and for all. So why doesn’t he? For no conscious reason, he decides to go over to the boy, neither curious nor suspicious, and having (seeing) nothing to lose, nothing to gain.

  The boy holds out his hand, then opens it to reveal the coin Tabbs gave him yesterday glinting with sweat in his palm. It’s okay if I come to your hotel room with you, he says.

  What?

  It’s okay if I come to your hotel room with you.

  This boy—Tabbs had not asked his name—with his flushed face, shining eyes, and poorly obedient tongue. He takes Tabbs with his other hand, the hot little dirty coinless one, this final action—Tabbs thinking, I will never see him again, I never saw him again.

  In the ocean air his thoughts play. Strangely peaceful here, the water glowing and rippling, and light hanging in the sky like trailing silk. The night cooler than you might imagine, out in the open like this, all those stars freezing above.

  An ungodly man diggeth up evil, and in his lips there is a burning fire. So is the tongue among them, that it defileth the whole body and setteth on fire the course of nature. Double is quick and alive, full of energy and expectation, his movements strong and excessive as he strolls back and forth along the water’s edge, which is like the spine of some colossal animal, strolls before the men assembled one and all in white robes along the shoreline, the men perfectly calm and relaxed in their garments as if these robes are simply another feature of this landscape, shawls of sea fog. He is part, one of those white-robed men, and he stands waiting and watching and hearing the low buzz of the other men breathing alongside him.

  I was there at the beginning, Double says. I remember the cold hold where together we were held in shackles and wallowed in filth and stewed in disease and pondered the worth of life and the finality of death as the chains rang and echoed and the ship creaked.

  And when we spoke out, they tried to remove us from speech and exile us to silence.

  The Deacon puts one hand on Drinkwater’s shoulder and exerts downward force until Drinkwater drops into the wet sand, porous beach dented around his knees.

  And he has to consider his own weight, all of that sinking softness beneath him, wet and black and full of shapes.

  In a barely audible voice Double asks Drinkwater to open his mouth. Drinkwater opens his mouth. (Small teeth.)

  O sons of Israel who feed upon suffering and who must quench your thirst in tears, your bondage shall not endure much longer, for there is something in us that cannot be outside us and thus will be after us though indeed it hath no history what it was before us, and cannot tell how it entered into us.

  Double’s left hand arrows into the opposing sleeve of his robe then angles free. The glinting object he now clutches in his hand he holds out for all to see, a glass vial filled with red liquid and secured with a bone (ivory?) cap carved in the likeness of a fish. Even from a distance of several feet in the fading light, he can see that the cap is so finely and intricately detailed that one might mistake the cap for an actual fish shrunken into miniature.

  Behold. Consecrated blood.

  Double unscrews the cap and allows one drop of consecrated blood to spill onto Drinkwater’s tongue then three additional drops to plop onto Drinkwater’s forehead.

  Do not mourn. Each of us is a celebrant here. In the times to come we shall know each other by bloodstains.

  Double moves on to the next man, who kneels down before the Deacon and opens his mouth without the Deacon having to first instruct him.

  The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who in the name of charity and goodwill shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children. And so stand with us, poised at the entrance to our suffering. Leap for our islands, our towns, our cities. Leap for our seaborne ships.

  No one comes in, Tabbs says. And you don’t go out.

  Yes, suh. The top end of his black boots rise well above his knees, like strange appendages, new growth, the boy’s body rising plant-like out of each leather sleeve. (Boots full of sound. Whenever he walks, his footsteps are hollow in sound as if there are hidden cellars under the floorboards beneath him.) And the shank, a sharp shiny addition to the belt around his hips, with its long wooden handle and equally long blade, also seems too large for this boy.

  Do you understand?

  Yes, suh.

  Tom is beside them before Tabbs notices his presence. I got stories to tell, he says.

  The way I feel this morning we might witness a miracle today. Double looks at the Bible on the dais, gets momentarily lost in admiring contemplation of the pages, then turns his gaze back to the congregation. Sermonizing, he keeps one hand on the Good Book. Are you all with me?

  Yes!

  I thought so.

  Excited laughter and exchanges from the congregation.

  I’m gon say something that yall don’t want to hear today.

  Uh oh.

  We are not worthy of this island, Double says. I don’t think yall heard me. I said, we are not worthy of this island.

  Silence.

  Our work has been slow, but it has been certain and unfailing. And our enemy steps in and puts an end to it. Unworthy I say. Because the enemy told all of us to leave. Did they not? They shot us. They poisoned us. They burned us. They took what rightfully belongs to us. Did they not? And what do we do in return? Nothing.

  Double shakes his head.

  They drove us out of our homes in the city, not once, but twice. And they will drive us from our homes here, on Edgemere, if we let them. Are we to build homes in the sea? I think not. But we seem willing to simply stand by and let the enemy do to us whatever they desire. Do you mean to tell me that you gon jus let the enemy edge you into the grave?

  Once again, Double shakes his head.

  Do those words hurt? I hope they do. God’s words should cut deeply. If you ever been cut, you know that you remember the knife forever.

  Speak, brother!

  If you haven’t been cut, you forget. God’s words should make you worse. Before you get better you have to feel sick. I’m gon make you all fee
l worse today.

  Preach.

  Double’s black robe is adorned with two red crosses on the front. A day of red. Red cloth draped across the black wooden Jesus affixed to the crucifix on the stage behind the dais.

  You wronged, buked and scorned, outraged, heartbroken, bruised, bleeding, and God-fearing people. Double drew his free hand against his glistening forehead and continued. I love all of the streets of Edgemere, and all of the alleys. Every inch of our island. And every man, woman, and child. Every cow and chicken and donkey. Each of the powers of the soul has a different luminosity here, a different coloring, a different richness, a different profundity, a different clarity and a different mystery from that which it has in other lands. Only upon this soil can our nation exist. His eyes radiating in their intensity some message to supplement his words.

  And our enemy is taking it all away. And you gon jus sit by and let them. Why oh why? His face is trapped in a smile so sick-looking that many are embarrassed into looking away.

  O God why has Thou cast us off? Remember Thy congregation. Lift up Thy feet unto the perpetual desolations. Thine enemies roar in our midst. They said in their hearts, “Let us destroy them together.” O God, how long shall the adversary reproach? How long?

  The words squeeze to a close like a carriage drawing to a creaky stop. Double brings both hands to his throat, with his thumbs pressing into his Adam’s apple. And he begins pushing up on his face at the chin as if he can lift his head from his neck. He falls backward to the floor headfirst, hands still at his throat, and starts thrashing about, arms wailing, face moving in a circle windmill-like. Wire is quickly at his side trying to bring an end to the seizure with a medical hand. But Double’s energy is such that he rolls around in the dirt on the floor, clutching his throat, rolls over and over, one direction and another, until he comes to rest on his left side, kicking his legs like a fallen horse.

  He gives up that position and remains flat on his back. Shut eyes, gnashing of teeth. Then his head cranes back, pushing up the temple of his throat, words gurgling there. Soon all twelve deacons surround Double, closing him off from view, Ruggles roaming the periphery trying to keep others away. Give him some air! Step back! Give him some air to breathe. The hum coming from Double’s body gradually approaches understandable sound. Wire and the others continue to minister to him, although Tabbs cannot see their actual movements.

  Then the deacons get to their feet one after the next, grouped in two rows like parted water, six deacons here and Wire and the other six deacons there. That is when Tabbs sees a second Double emerge from the right side of the first, one man on the floor become two. Both men sitting up slowly then both getting into a kneeling position before standing fully upright. One Double falls down, two Doubles get up. Two Doubles. Tabbs looks intently, trying to clarify what he sees. His own eyes must express amazement first, denial second, and then acceptance. Two Doubles. They take to the podiums at either end of the stage. Audible expressions of awe and disbelief from the congregation. Indeed, it is Double, same skin, same hair, same teeth, same black robe with two red crosses dirty in the same places. Wire tries to take one Double by the hand, but both Doubles wave him away.

  You see. I was slain in the spirit. But I arose. See me now. Double on the left and Double on the right, both speaking at once.

  Yea, I tell you, if we die, it will be but a temporary farewell to this earth. Let me assure you that we will rise up some day from the ashes and come again. The two Doubles are looking at the congregation as if they are staring at something behind them, something that they can see only by looking through them. The dark places of the earth are full of the habitations of cruelty. Arise, O God. Forget not Thine enemies, for the tumult of those that rise up against Thee increaseth continually. Double’s tone is flat, so hostile that it lacks even the warmth of anger. Help us rain flesh upon them as dust.

  Members of the congregation begin to fall to their knees in awe.

  And let them eat, and be well filled, and die while the poisoned meat is yet within their mouths. Help us. We are become a reproach to our neighbors, a scorn and derision to them that are round about us.

  Preach.

  Turn us again, O God, and cause Thy face to shine; and we shall be saved. And render unto our neighbors sevenfold into their bosom their reproach. But fornication and all uncleanliness or covetousness, let it not be once among you. Each Double points a finger at the congregation. Neither filthiness nor foolish talking nor jesting. And be not drunk with wine. No whoremonger, nor unclean person, nor covetous man who is an idolater hath any inheritance in the kingdom. Let no man deceive you with vain words. And have no fellowship with the unfruitful works of darkness.

  Go away, Satan!

  Walk as children of light.

  Satan!

  Hold not Thy peace, O God, and be not still. For, lo, Thine enemies make a tumult. They hate Thee. Thine enemy places his mother, sister, wife, and daughter on a platform up among the stars, then this enemy gets a thousand swords, rifles, and cannons and decrees death to him who seeks to drag them down.

  Tabbs tells himself, I will take Tom and leave. I must take Tom away from this place, from Edgemere, from the city. Tom and me gone by morning.

  Underground (Return)

  (1869)

  “The closer I’m drawn to God, the more things on earth lose their color and taste.”

  SOMETHING IS SUCKING ELIZA IN, SUCKING HER INTO THIS country landscape, Eliza a city lady who holds a fit against the country but who now feels absolutely secure here. Go wherever you please. Look at whatever you please. Solace and delight in the honey-colored bales of hay dotting the landscape, the sacks of feed, the bushels of peanuts and firewood lining the road. Surroundings so rich she has to select senses.

  She walks until the landscape slurs into darkness. And once it is dark she is inside the house in ten minutes. She can sit down, rest her tired soul, and let her hungry body fill itself. Night around her continues to be alive, her body porous to every noise, scent, and taste. The lovely swallowing of thick night air as it carves around her brain, cutting away any thoughts or memories she doesn’t want, leaving her with nothing but her lean anonymity. Glad to be cut off from the city. Not the slightest clue about what is going on there. Her final appalling days there enough.

  Perhaps the events should not have proved as stunning as they did, however suddenly they came. One miscellaneous night she heard wild thunder and knew that people were going to die. Then in the days that followed, sky noises, abrupt light, and fires glowing in her windows like fireflies painted the complete details of scenes that she did not need to see, mobs hunting and hounding the way only white blood can, Eliza not quite believing that it was happening again.

  Tom, how did you escape the mob?

  Tom said, I went up in a chariot of fire.

  She knows that she cannot return to the city. She is uneasy at the thought that this stay in the country is a return to a kind of beginning, a push back. (Sharpe. Tom.) She tries to shove away from the thought, but it stays suspended in her brain. What is she saying good-bye to?

  You did not choose me. It was I who chose you.

  She flames a lamp. Light pushes its way about the corners of the disintegrating roof. It had once been a nice house, with soft timber selected for the beauty of its grains. Now the house carries a faint odor of dampness. The beams in the ceiling look old and insecure, little monsters chewing up the wood from inside. She feels calm in a strange distracted way. Lingering in this wayside place where new emotions enter her. Thinking (what else?) about black days and nights in the city where she would wake early each morning, the pain in her head on again.

  What she wanted was something not far from herself, but she would not want to think her feelings out. Back home in the city, even before the violence, she would be overcome by such a sense of aimlessness and futility that she would venture out, purely in order to preserve an illusion of purpose, and walk about the streets with no particular des
tination in mind. In this way she got to see the city in her own good time. The streets always curiously empty, no explanation for it, unless—perhaps—half the population spent every day drowsing the hottest part of the day indoors. Only those few but serious faces returning her gaze. In the faces she would sense some terrible knowledge shared. Then one day she saw a man who looked like a beardless General Bethune walking freely about, crutches circling him, like a man rowing a boat on dry land. Peeking into the man’s silent face, she convinced herself that it was someone else entirely. That was when she knew she had to get out of the city, alone there in her apartment, no Sharpe, no Tom, only the piano. Convinced herself that she had to go to the house in the country, for the outside world in the city had become so painful for her that she could no longer stand to be in it. And then the violence came.

  Walking around the house she sees only lifeless objects. She is the only crazily alive thing in the house. She will always stand outside, against herself, searching for that something inside that can break down her despair. (Why?) Daylight remembrance of words said and events that happened far apart, now no longer separate but pushed into each other. (Bath. Lait.) Her days will be filled with more broken things. Any reason she should think differently? This is what she has. This is what I have.

  Some nights when she sleeps, the long day behind her, she hears Tom speaking inside her, speaking in a voice that does not sound like the one she remembers—but why does it sound familiar?—and speaking words she doesn’t remember him saying. She does not resist. Indeed, she lets it happen, forgetting who she is for a time to become him. Sleeps on serenely. No one has heard these words, it seems, but her, a rare luxury:

  The doors spring open. The people enter. The music flies up. Breath stops. I am what I am. A what and a who.

  Go down belowdecks then climb back up top into sunlight and noise. Look, Blind Tom! What seeing is.

  They choose me. I cannot choose them. What seeing is. A hand touches my shoulder. A voice comes into my ear. Each person is a surprise.