The Prophets

by Robert Jones, Jr.

  Did Maggie not understand his humiliation now would be his dignity later? She would regret the looks she was giving him as he trailed Paul on his way into the room where the door was now closed. She would marvel at his plan once he made it clear. Yes, it would be a tacit agreement if not an explicit one: in exchange for being learnèd in the ways of Christ, which meant being learnèd in ways forbidden by law, Amos would ensure docility was treasured over rebellion; earthly rewards, if there truly were any, were no match for heavenly ones. No blade should ever be raised against either master or mistress anywhere within the confines of Empty.

  And further, disobedience would be likewise cast out. And wasn’t that, after all, exactly what Isaiah and Samuel’s obstinance amounted to? There was nothing wrong with the wenches given to them; Paul had already proven that. It was impossible that they were both infertile. So it had to be willful, some intentional measure to thwart Paul’s plan to multiply them as he saw fit. It was as though they believed that the line should stop with them and they would thus be able to spare the blood of their blood whatever it was they believed they, themselves, suffered.

  Ha! Glory! What the whip couldn’t remedy, Jesus could. And that was a good thing!

  But that wasn’t all. In the blank spaces between the letter was the spirit. And that held weight. Amos knew that success would also garner him sway. Not too much; a person should never think a toubab could be so brazenly molded, especially not by a darkie. All influence had to have the appearance of confirmation. And what he would eventually be able to have confirmed was that Paul had no further use for Essie. Hallelujah.

  To give Paul the benediction he sought, a newly christened Amos would take Essie’s hand in marriage. A simple broom jump, as Amos had seen performed in kinship circles as a child. He had to, of course, first ask for Paul’s permission. These were traditions that followed strict rules and could only be ordained if the master of the manor gave his blessing. And while their ceremony could never be as astounding as a toubab’s—there would be no horses or trumpets, no impeccably tailored clothing, no one coming from far to join in the merriment, and Essie’s parents wouldn’t be on hand to give her away because, as it turns out, they were given away themselves—there was no better view than the waters of the Yazoo, rushing not at all haphazardly to meet the grand Mississippi before, finally, joining in their long journey to the Gulf of Mexico.

  It was that last thought, not the door opening onto Paul’s private study—a room lined, on two sides, floor to ceiling, with volumes and volumes of books—that made Amos gasp. Though Paul smiled and Amos took that to mean that he thought the inhalation was a tribute to the grandeur they both stepped into. With a flourish, Paul stepped behind a dark maple desk, on top of which there were neat stacks of papers and, to the right, a closed jar of ink with a pen laid neatly on top of it. Paul sat and gestured for Amos to step forward. Crushing his poor hat between both hands, crumbling it as though he was about to discard it, Amos took timid steps and kept his eyes to the ground as Paul lit a candle in a brass holder.

  “Tell me what you know about the Christ,” Paul said, louder than necessary.

  Amos knew that Paul liked to hear himself speak, was dazzled by the display and encouraged, by the embellishments biblical references allowed him, to opine without regard to the desires of his audience. Essie talked about how Paul hogged the ears of his guests at the parties he and Ruth would sometimes host. That was when he would have the most people in the Big House, and give them the best dresses to wear so as to impress his guests, who saw beauty in white cloth against black flesh. Wide-eyed and gaping, the contrast seemed to bring them a kind of comfort that Essie could only guess at.

  They all saw it, though, Essie said. How Paul’s guests would yawn and roll their eyes and pull their watches from their pockets, pretend to be called elsewhere, give every indication that they had heard enough. But none of that stopped Paul. If they were in his house, they were honor bound to be taken by the words God Himself put in his mouth.

  Amos observed something more: how Paul was delighted by his ability to connect these words of accumulation, dominance, and piety in the language of his birth. And not for the first time, Amos envied him. What must it have been like to wake up each day and greet the morning with the tongue of your mother’s mother’s mother? Hell, to even know who your mother’s mother’s mother was!

  “What I’m telling you, nigger, is that this journey you are set to embark on is not a fool’s errand. If you are called, your allegiance is to the Almighty and your loyalty is mine for all eternity, for it is I who permitted it.”

  Amos bowed his head deeper into his chest and mumbled, “Yes, Massa.”

  “What you say?”

  “Yessuh, Massa,” Amos said louder, his hands now fidgeting at his sides.

  It wasn’t the first time he felt a twinge in the pit of his stomach that he had tried to avoid interpreting as defeat. To stand there, head necessarily bowed before the man who spoiled his soon-to-be broom-wife—no, spoiled himself! What Paul committed was an act against his own humanity, and no manner of expertly tailored clothing or well-enunciated diction would change that. Nor would any perfectly framed renderings of him and his family—all of them looking at the viewer, hiding smiles, with the “lady,” as they called her, seated, as was her right to be, and her husband and son flanking her as though their role was to guard her against anyone looking at them. This painting, taunting anybody who gazed upon it, hung above a fireplace that had the audacity to be roaring in August.

  Nah. None of that shit would spare him. Neither would the stacks of coin, nor the promissory notes, nor the wagons full of people, nor the acres and acres of land that held the dead and dying but remained a fetching green nevertheless. None of this gave Paul immunity from what would be an honest comeuppance if only Amos fell full into his part; fell so hard, in fact, that he would lose himself to the descent, become it even, wingless to the very bottom of it, if that was what was required to keep Essie from the heart of the bull’s-eye. So head bowed, yes, head bowed. Let Paul’s fury see where the crown should go.

  For months, Amos learned from Paul, word for word, what Paul called “the book of creation and the source of names.” At night, Amos had shared some of what he learned with Essie, spoke, also, to her belly so that their child would know. She was fascinated by it all because she hadn’t heard the stories quite in this way before. Amos realized that he gave the words a rhythm that Paul couldn’t. This pleased Amos. And that was when he began to feel it: lifted.

  He had almost reached the summit when Essie gave birth to a disappointment. Amos looked at the baby’s skin and knew its origin immediately. The midwife wept; the child screamed; and Essie yelled, “Solomon!” Amos stepped back, inhaled deeply, and then let it out quickly.

  He knelt down next to Essie. He understood what she was suggesting because he knew the story all too well. Split a baby in half? “No ma’am. So sorry. We can’t. Can’t do that and keep you safe, too. Trust me. I know it.”

  Nearly at the top, but the double screaming, day and night, had yanked Amos right back down. When the dreams began, Amos could make neither heads nor tails of them. The lightning, the howling wind, the thunder, the singing magnified, the colors, the blurred figures, the spinning, the music—all of it swirling together. It only confused him. The falling he recognized because that was what he told himself he would do. But he imagined that he would be falling forward, as one might after a long day, a pallet just within reach, so that the arms could extend and protect oneself from damage. But the backwardness of this new tumbling was unexpected. Outstretched arms provided no buffer. And there he was, kicking and screaming in the blinding expanse of white where not even his voice was echoed back to him.

  There was someone living in the clouds, someone who had turned the world now into the same blanket of fog that Amos found himself spinning in. And it wasn’t that this someone was invi
sible but that, instead, it had given the world its own color so that it was merely camouflaged. Amos knew that all he had to do was wait. If he was resolute in his patience, the somebody would blink, revealing ever so briefly the precise location of its presence into which Amos could find a fool’s refuge, soft as cotton. And then, in chorus, it could say his name.

  But there was no chorus to be found. He heard only a singular voice, hard, like it had been scraped across gravel or frozen. When it said his name, Amos felt his blood chill.

  He woke up: sticky, wet, and dizzy; short of breath; parched and starving; his voice, also, a croak; too tired to move. But he had been touched. In his face, there was a knowledge that he didn’t have before, a certainty and a seeing that came upon him through the communion with the baffling every-which-way he encountered while unconscious. Its meaning couldn’t be interpreted, but he somehow knew he could be a conduit through which understanding could be conveyed to others. When the time came, whatever forces communicated with him would communicate through him. This was the mark of tongues. The wretched, despite all other things, anointed. Amos knew Paul evinced no similar experience. This thing was Amos’s and Amos’s alone.

  As Essie lay next to him, he looked upon her with his newest eyes, tracing every kink and curl on her head, jet-black tresses that blanketed her neck until they gave way to the curve of her back. He could see the bumps of her spine leading down to the splendor that was her own and that was the gift he had hoped his transformation would be able to provide: that she would be able to reclaim what was rightfully hers and give herself back to herself while he witnessed and recited a psalm.

  At the first sermon, Amos spoke to the four people who had it in them to get up on their day of rest. Amos asked Paul’s permission to use the spot just beyond the cotton field, but still on Halifax land. Paul told James to watch over.

  Amos climbed upon the rock, like a mount. The light and shadow both hit him at once. From that moment, the people could look nowhere else.

  “What God wouldn’t give for a jug of lemonade,” he said to them as he dabbed his head with a torn piece of cloth, folded to absorb the sweat beading at his hairline.

  “Or potlikker,” A Man Called Coot shot back, and they all laughed.

  “You are not your body,” Amos said softly to the people, as James stood armed in the canopy of trees.

  “What you mean?” a woman named Naomi asked. “I sure is my body. Got the scars and tired hands to prove it.”

  Amos smiled and went closer to her. He touched her on the arm, which she eyed suspiciously. Then laid his other hand right on the woman’s chest, felt the pulse of her heart beneath his palm, and shook his head. Amos shot up suddenly and clapped his hands together. He looked up, past the trees to the sky above, then closed his eyes to listen to the inside voice that was only a whisper, an incessant whisper that was too low to disturb the quiet, and quiet was what he needed in order to hear it properly. He needed to still everything, even the drag of his breath, to absorb the murmuring words that he was certain came from the center of everything, where the fog had only to blink to let him know where the hiding place was.

  He opened his eyes and looked down at Naomi, seated before him.

  “Ma’am, I got some good news for you.”

  Naomi, as though she had heard the same whispering voice, placed her hand on her cheek.

  From the edge, James removed his hat. He put his rifle down and leaned on it like a cane. Loud enough for Amos to hear, he said:

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  * * *

  —

  “Did you like the pie?”

  Amos’s question swept up like dust and lingered in the air momentarily before being caught by a breeze and blown over Isaiah’s shoulder. Isaiah and Samuel stood, arm to arm, at the entrance of Amos and Essie’s shack. Their stance struck Amos as war, but he wasn’t afraid. Behind them, a blue cloth draped the doorway, keeping the sun at bay. But it also made it so that their faces were cast in shadow and Amos could only make out vague details: lips, bright eyes, and not much else, which didn’t matter because their blackness, which the interior of the shack merely magnified, was comforting enough.

  “Essie cook good, don’t she?”

  “What you want from us?” Samuel asked in a hushed but deep tone.

  Amos, seated, folded his hands, pressed his lips together, and closed his eyes.

  “Speak plain, Amos,” Samuel said.

  Amos opened his eyes and looked at Samuel. “It don’t get no plainer than this: you gotta give Massa babies.”

  Samuel leaned forward, bringing his face closer to Amos’s. He seemed to inspect it, search it for something. When he found it, he raised an eyebrow.

  “What he promise you? Extra vittles? A pass to town? Freedom papers? Show me when a toubab ever keep they word.”

  Amos smiled. He leaned back and nodded his head.

  “Be Auntie’s daughter Puah is just at that age, you know,” he said. “You could give Massa some sturdy children with her.”

  Isaiah looked at Samuel, whose darting eyes seemed to be communicating without words. Amos looked at them directly.

  “What you say?” he asked. Neither Samuel nor Isaiah answered.

  “I don’t understand why y’all make this so hard,” Amos said casually. “Y’all ain’t being asked to do what no man ain’t never been asked to do before. What make y’all so different?”

  Silence.

  Isaiah looked at Samuel. Samuel grumbled.

  “Why you putting this on us, Amos?”

  Amos saw Samuel standing steady for a moment, then watched as he stormed outside, stooped, and picked up the nearest rock he could find. It was of moderate size, smaller than the palm of his hand, and fit snugly inside it. He came back into the cabin. He raised his arm and threw the stone at Amos, just missing his head. Purposely missed, because at that close range, it was a sure shot. Nevertheless, Amos fell backward, then stood up quickly. He made no move toward Samuel. Isaiah touched Samuel’s tensing arm and Samuel snatched it away before running back out of the shack, leaving Isaiah alone with Amos.

  Amos dusted off his pants. He chuckled a bit before walking toward Isaiah.

  “That one got some temper, huh? You gotta show him how to keep that in check. If you won’t, the lash will.”

  Isaiah said nothing. Amos put his hand on Isaiah’s shoulder. Isaiah looked at it. He removed Amos’s hand, but gently, without malice. He didn’t look at Amos when he did it. He was watching the spot where there should have been a door, but there was only a blue cloth. Amos moved into his line of sight. He tilted his head slightly and looked into Isaiah’s eyes.

  “You remember, right? The wagon. You remember?” Amos was bent. He held out his arms, like he was carrying, no, cradling a child in them. Nothing was there, but something was there.

  Isaiah’s eyes widened; his mouth opened and, at first, made no sound. Then:

  “That was you?” he said, his voice quivering when it finally formed words. “I don’t understand. Why you never tell me? Why you wait so long?”

  Isaiah moved closer to Amos. Amos stood his ground.

  “I . . .”

  “You told me you tell me my name. You said a promise. You said.”

  “I was waiting ’til you reach the age of manhood. I ain’t wanna waste something like this on a boy. It be too big for him to carry.”

  “You knew it was me and you ain’t say nothing?” asked Isaiah, voice trembling.

  Amos placed his hand back on Isaiah’s shoulder. “I knew it was you and was fixin’ to tell you when the time was right.”

  “Time right now, ain’t it? So tell me.”

  “When you earn it, I tell you.”

  “Which is it? Manhood time or when I earn it? You talk slippery.”

  “Come to the woods on Sunday,”
Amos said finally, resting his arms at his sides. “Son.”

  “My. Name!” Isaiah shouted.

  The tears had made their way out. There were streaks down his face now. Though they brought Amos no joy, he smiled again. Isaiah could be reached, he thought.

  Isaiah was quiet. His gaze returned to the cloth, which had begun to move a little in the breeze.

  “I know more than your name,” Amos said. “Talk to Samuel about Puah. And we find you somebody. But not Essie. Not Essie, no more.”

  Isaiah looked at Amos as though he couldn’t speak an answer. Isaiah closed his eyes. Amos watched as he muffled a covenant with despair. But the sound, not as mellow as birdsong, nor as thunderous as a midday storm, could be heard, resting somewhere between the two, and made Amos long for the old place—Virginia. The longing was misplaced. That wasn’t home and neither was this: not these shores, certainly, but which ones, exactly, he knew he would never know, and that was where the pain was.

  Isaiah opened his eyes.

  Amos’s mouth opened slightly, as though to whisper or to kiss, his tongue not restful behind his teeth. Then he closed it quickly. What he wouldn’t give to have his pain eased, too. He shook his head and let out a frustrated breath.

  “Puah. And we find somebody for you. But not Essie.”

  Isaiah walked outside. He looked down briefly. Amos could see in the slump of his shoulders that the boy whom he had once lifted up was now pressed under the weight of Amos pushing him down. And no matter how necessary, Amos felt a little broken himself for this. Suddenly, Isaiah took off, ran in the direction of the barn, disappearing behind the clouds of dust his feet stirred up. Now it was Amos’s turn to stare at the blue cloth, moving slightly in a too-gentle wind.

  * * *

  —

  A few days after Samuel almost smashed a rock into his head, Amos walked, with only minor trepidation, to the barn. He was praying the entire time so he ignored the children playing in the weeds and the folks who waved to him as he passed their shacks. They would have to forgive his rudeness. When he reached the fence of the barn, he saw Samuel and Isaiah kneeling near the barn door, a slop pail between them. He refused to be seduced by their glowing.