The Prophets

by Robert Jones, Jr.

  “Those heat bumps.”

  “Gal, go on with that mess.”

  Sometimes it was hard to endure Sarah’s truths, as unsweetened and thorny as they were. They had no roundness, no smooth edges, and every point was pin sharp. Still, from every pin-sized wound, only a little blood was let. In the small, manageable droplets, Puah could see the answers that even Sarah never intended to confront. That was a blessing that most people turned away from. Not Puah, though. Puah knew that the secret of strength was in how much truth could be endured. And on a plantation full of people asleep in lies, she intended to stay awake, no matter how much it stung.

  “Well.”

  “Well nothing. Leave him be.” Sarah sighed.

  Heat came off Puah. She had hoped that Sarah felt it, that it soothed her enough to know that she had said enough and that Puah had heard enough. Tiny wounds, that’s all. Better hurt now in the company of sisters, than hurt later wearing the chuckles of men down her back. A moment passed before Sarah spoke again.

  “I don’t wanna be up in here talking ’bout no mens, no way. They take up too much space in us as it is. Leave no room for ourselfs to stretch a bit or lay down without being bothered.”

  “You right,” Puah conceded, if only with her words.

  “So you want your hair up you said?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Sarah gently pushed Puah’s head forward, exposing the nape of her neck. Puah leaned into it, her chin touching her chest.

  “My Mary used to be so tender-headed. I had to do her hair in big box braids. Two or three was all she could take.” Sarah laughed. “You ain’t tender-headed a bit. I can do nicer plaits, smaller. And take my sweet ol’ time.”

  Puah closed her eyes and took in as much as she could.

  Time, that is.

  * * *

  —

  The sun was creamy at the horizon when she decided to go see Samuel. Some of the other people sat outside their shacks trying to relish as much as they could of the day as it was being pulled out of their grasps. Even the children who, earlier, had an energy that couldn’t be sapped had slowed, sat down to mourn its passing.

  Puah walked off the path, onto the weeds that grew on either side of it. They cushioned her step and were cool against her feet. She was in the mood to pamper herself.

  By the time she reached the barn, the sky had moved from rose to indigo and her skin had a sweat glow that only magnified her beauty. She couldn’t wait to show Samuel what Sarah did with her hair.

  The barn doors were open and there was a faint light emanating from within. She didn’t want to enter unannounced, so she called for Samuel and she broke his name up into threes like only she could and only when speaking to him.

  “Over here,” Samuel responded.

  She spun around and she saw them. Her lips parted, ever so slightly, just enough to let her tongue slip out to wet her lips. But no matter how many times she moistened them, they would dry again.

  There was Sam-u-well sitting on the ground, his legs crossed flat in front of him. Behind him, Isaiah sat on a bale of hay. He was braiding Samuel’s hair.

  “Oh hey, Puah.” Samuel smiled. “I take your advice. Look at me. Me! Getting my hair plait. Don’t that just beat all? Ouch, ’Zay. That too tight!”

  “Hey, Puah,” Isaiah said.

  Puah walked over to the pail on the ground next to them. She dipped the ladle in it and took two big gulps of water. She sat down on the ground.

  “Your hair looks nice,” Samuel said to her. Isaiah nodded in agreement.

  She sat there watching them, a dazed look on her face.

  “You all right?” Samuel asked her.

  She didn’t answer. She was too busy cocking her head to the left, trying to bring the imaginary into focus. It shimmered upon fading into view. It was night there, too, and fireflies blinked a serenade. Beyond them, she saw two figures. They leaned into each other as they sat at the shore of a shiny river where fish that could fly took turns leaping into the air and then diving back down into the water. Then the two figures stood and walked toward the flurry of lightning bugs. The male figure, brawny and tall, took the curvaceous female figure into his arms and they twirled round and round to a music that Puah only scarcely heard. It was a cradlesong. Then all the flies lit up at once and illuminated the couple. It was the Other Puah and Her Samuel. She was smiling and looking into his eyes, deeper and deeper, and, to her surprise, there it was. Unmistakably. The door that had always been sealed was cracked open. There was a light coming from the opening, faint like from a candle, but light nonetheless. And the light spoke. It said, “Been waiting on you.”

  Puah reached out her hand at the scene, tried to grab and hold on to it as it began to recede. No matter which way she cocked her head, it wouldn’t return.

  “Puah?” Isaiah said.

  A tear rolled down her cheek.

  “Puah?” Samuel said.

  And she folded in on herself, taking comfort in her own arms. The hem of her dress tucked safely beneath her feet.

  Leviticus

  You too much like a woman,” Samuel said as he pitchforked hay into a pile near the horse stables. Sweat dripped from his temples to his jaw before collecting, quietly, in the dimple just above his collarbone.

  Isaiah had pails in his hands. He was preparing to go milk the cows but stopped suddenly with Samuel’s observation. He was particularly struck by Samuel’s tone: not exactly coarse, but definitely the sound of a man who had been thinking about it, had allowed it to roll around his head, and in his mouth, had grown tired of keeping it locked away in his chest, and could only find reprieve in its release. Isaiah turned to look at Samuel and smiled anyway.

  “I thank you,” he said and winked his playfulness.

  “I ain’t trying to flatter you,” Samuel responded as he continued to pile the hay, which was now waist high.

  Isaiah chuckled. “Look at that. Sweet-talking me and ain’t even trying.”

  Samuel sucked his teeth. Isaiah walked over to him with pails in hand. The pail handles squeaked with each step. The sound irritated Samuel and made him bristle.

  “Now I bother you?” Isaiah asked.

  Samuel stopped shoveling. He stuck the pitchfork into the ground with enough force that it stood on its own. He looked down at it, then faced Isaiah.

  “I can’t have no weaklings by my side.”

  “You know me to be weak?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Nah, suh, I don’t,” Isaiah said. He put the pails on the ground next to the pitchfork. “But it sound like you calling me weak because I remind you of a woman.”

  Samuel just stared at him.

  “But none of the womens you know is weak.”

  “But toubab think they weak.”

  “Toubab think all of us weak.” Isaiah shook his head. “You worried too much ’bout what toubab think.”

  “I better be worried. And you, too!” Samuel’s chest puffed like it was preparing to release yet again.

  “Why?”

  “Everybody can’t be against us, ’Zay!” Samuel yelled.

  Samuel had never spoken to Isaiah in that tone before and Isaiah could see the sweat on Samuel’s brow and the pained expression on his face that announced regret etching its way in. Isaiah took a deep breath, looked down at the ground, refusing to return the volume that had just assaulted him. Instead, he spoke quietly.

  “And everybody can’t want us to be what they want us to be neither.”

  Samuel rested his arm on the handle of the pitchfork. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He regretted letting himself open this way. A man, he thought, should have better control over his doors and locks. Still, some doors couldn’t be locked once opened. He looked at Isaiah. He stared into his eyes and was almost convinced, by their t
ender shape, by how they were crowned by thick, silky eyebrows, to let it go. Almost.

  “How ’bout your name?”

  Isaiah frowned. “My name,” he whispered. “How you could even . . .”

  Samuel wiped his brow with both hands but didn’t know what to do with them afterward, so he balled them into fists. He looked intently at Isaiah.

  “When you know Big Hosea to have a problem with anybody, huh?”

  Isaiah’s lips parted, but only silence filled the space.

  “I been knowing him since we both little. You see how he come after me? For what?” Samuel grunted.

  “I know, and . . .”

  “And what you do? Stand there instead of helping.”

  “It was me the one who pull you off him!”

  “When you shoulda been the one helping me whup him!”

  Isaiah nearly buckled under the weight of that. He leaned forward. He put his hands on his legs, just above his knees, to brace himself. He exhaled. He kept looking at the ground.

  Samuel eyed him from toe to head. “Yeah.”

  Isaiah wouldn’t allow himself to be crushed by the heaviness or by Samuel’s attempt to stack more on top of it. He stood erect. He took two steps toward Samuel. He looked him in the eyes and then looked away to gather his thoughts. Samuel, meanwhile, had planted his feet and cracked his knuckles.

  “You right. Sorry,” Isaiah said as he returned to gaze into Samuel’s squinting eyes. “I shoulda done more, but I ain’t wanna do nothing to make Amos think he got the upper hand—or make the people think we was what he said we was.”

  Samuel’s lips were dry and ashy, so he licked them. His tongue darted out, drenching first the bottom then the top. He tasted salt. He put his hand on the handle of the pitchfork.

  “Folks listen to Amos. Maybe we should,” he said. His grip on the pitchfork was loose and unsure.

  “No,” Isaiah said quickly. “I young. Young as you. But this I know ’cause it don’t take long to learn it: anybody with a whip gone use it. And people without one gone feel it.”

  Samuel snatched up the pitchfork.

  “Amos ain’t got no whip!” he said as he began, furiously, to fork hay.

  “But folks finna obey him just the same,” Isaiah countered.

  Samuel stopped and let the pitchfork fall. It hit the ground with a thud. The two of them just stood there, silent, not looking at each other, but both breathing heavily, audibly. Finally, Samuel cracked the silence in half.

  “I can’t stay here.”

  “Who can’t?” asked Isaiah.

  Samuel paused. He had no answer that would satisfy. The realization made his chest burn and his face itch. He clapped his sweaty palms. The sudden, sharp sound stirred a horse or two before it dissipated. It didn’t distract Isaiah, however. He kept his gaze steady, his face still prepared to receive an answer to his question.

  “You ain’t never talk like this before,” Isaiah said gently.

  “Maybe not talk,” Samuel replied.

  “But think? Can’t be. Even in the midnight hour?”

  In Isaiah’s eyes was a mist, nighttime, and two sets of calloused feet creeping alongside a riverbank. Owls hooted and the snap of fallen branches being cracked in half by heavy footsteps echoed in the distance. Far behind, a point of light and the voices of wild men laughing. A glint of metal seen by the shine of the moon and the two sets of feet speed up, into the wet of the river. Muddy and tired. Then two whole bodies submerge and, though frantic, refuse to make a splash for fear of attracting the attention of jackals disguised as men.

  But the silence provides no shelter and the wildness catches up to them and drags them, by their feet, out of the water, over jagged rocks, through the broken woods until they come upon a row of bitter, eager trees willing to perform acts of vengeance in the name of stolen fruit. The men have ropes, laughter, and fingers hooked into triggers. The men bind their prey. Nooses burn necks. Tightened, they block air. Then the eyes constrict and throats mourn the denial of screaming. Pull. Pull. And up in the air the bodies go. Kicking the nothing around them. Flying nowhere.

  After a while, tuckered out down to the soul, they go limp, an offense to the gods of wicked laughter. So they unload their weapons into the dead-already. Then they douse the bodies with oil and set them aflame. They think it’s a campfire, so they sing songs. Look at the monkeys. Look at the monkeys. Swinging. Swinging from the trees. The flames eventually die and the bodies eventually drop. The wild men fight over the best pieces to take home.

  When Isaiah snapped back to the barn, it dawned on him that he had been standing there the entire time and neither he nor Samuel had even attempted to touch the other. He moved a step closer and stroked Samuel’s cheek with the back of his hand, his rough knuckles finding comfort against Samuel’s smooth skin. Samuel closed his eyes, leaned into the rhythm of Isaiah’s motion before finally grabbing Isaiah’s hand and holding it in place against his face. Samuel kissed Isaiah’s hand.

  “There’s danger in the wilderness,” Isaiah unloaded. He figured that it was only fair that the both of them share the weight of it. Samuel lifted it, inspected it, and noticed a crack in it. Those monkey-swinging bodies: they dared go down without a fight?

  “There’s danger here,” Samuel replied. He cut his eyes, almost with cruelty, at Isaiah and picked up the pitchfork again. Isaiah grabbed him by the wrist. He stared into Samuel’s face, searching for an opening, however small.

  “Don’t break us, man.”

  “Ain’t I here?” Samuel asked, not exactly returning Isaiah’s gaze. “You see me or nah?”

  He pulled himself from Isaiah’s grasp and returned to the pitchfork and his drudgery. For a moment, Isaiah didn’t move. He was oddly calmed by the repetitious sound of Samuel’s forking, the consistency of his one-two motion.

  “I could do it, you know,” Samuel said at last. “Make it with all those womens. But I just don’t wanna.”

  Isaiah stepped back, turned his mouth to one side.

  “You ain’t never think that?” Samuel asked him.

  “So you wanna hurt two people, not just one?” Isaiah looked around the barn—at the horses in the stables, at the haystacks, at the tools that hung on rusty nails hammered haphazardly into the barn walls, at the roof and its intersections of wooden beams. He looked and looked as though it were his mind and he was searching for the answer to Samuel’s question, but all he could find were cracks.

  “Sometimes I don’t even know you,” Isaiah said out loud, still looking at the barn walls.

  “You know me. I be the you you don’t let free.”

  Isaiah was going to say, You mean the me I been freed, but didn’t see the point. “Sure they thank you for it,” he replied instead. “The womens, I mean. For being able to. Puah especially.”

  Samuel scowled. “You jealous.”

  “Maybe. But not why you think.”

  “Just saying. If you feel to stay here, be easier if—”

  Isaiah cut him off. “Whatever you decide is blessèd.”

  With force, Samuel let out some air through his nose and raised it. “You different.” He didn’t mean to say it out loud, but it was too late. It had already middle-finger plucked Isaiah on the forehead, pinched his arm as a cross mother would. All Isaiah could do was rub the places that stung and give Samuel the eyes that conveyed his surrender.

  Samuel stood there and, for the first time, was disturbed by the stench of the barn and the way it stuck to his skin. He noticed that underneath the saltiness was something sour, like food left to rot. He held his nose for a moment and suppressed an urge to heave. Finally, he walked over to the pails that Isaiah had put down.

  “Let me do this. You pitch the hay,” he said as he picked up the pails and headed outside. He felt Isaiah’s eyes on his back, yes, but also his caress. But he didn’t stop.<
br />
  He went to the cows. They greeted him tumultuously, mooing their anxiety.

  “You looking for ’Zay, huh?” he said to them.

  He sat down on the tiny wooden stool and waved away the flies that circled his head.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said to the nearest cow.

  Then he grabbed her teats and started to pull.

  O, Sarah!

  The yovo who licked Sarah’s cheek said that he knew she was sturdy because she still tasted like salt water. Yovo was an old thing that Maggie told her no one else would understand, so she might as well call them toubab like everyone else did. A shared language was how they could form a bond despite subsisting on the most foreign of soils. They brought with them hundreds of languages, divine practices, and ancestors. Those who had not had them ripped from even their dreams knew better than to speak them in earshot because betrayal was also a commodity.

  “Keep it behind the bosom,” Maggie had told her. “Maybe inside a cheek. Close, but hidden. It’ll be easy to reach when you need it. Trust that.”

  Despite sharing a unifying language, nobody wanted to hear Sarah’s ship story. Wagon tales were hard enough. But to sit still as Sarah revealed how, when left no other choice, when closed in tight and surrounded by the heat, dank, and hands of a wayward vessel, vomit could become a meal—that was simply too much. Most of the people she came to live with on Empty knew nothing of ships. They had been born in the stolen land, under the watchful gazes of a people with eyes—mercy!—eyes that seemed to glow in the dark like any pouncing beast. See, the first hands to touch them were without skin so she couldn’t expect from them a willing audience. She wasn’t insulted, then, by their choice to leave her without witnesses. That would perhaps mean that her name would eventually be lost to time, and the girls who came up behind her wouldn’t have her to show them exactly who came before. That was where the real shame found roots. She kept it, then, all of it, locked up in her head with the other things that squeezed themselves into that space without even the courtesy of a “How you?”