My last baby. My onlyest one left to see.
Everything had called on her to remember, but sometimes, she had to forget in order to make it through. Ayo Itself had told her that. He wouldn’t let them do to Maggie what they did to him, not without risking everything to prevent it. Eyes wide and fists raised, he risked his body, which Maggie had willingly touched, knowing it would eventually cost her. There could never be peace, only moments in which war wasn’t overwhelming. He had been cut off. All he ever got to see of Samuel was Maggie’s out-to-here belly, which he kissed at night and spoke to in the old tongue, which wasn’t Maggie’s old tongue, but some of the words still held meaning for her.
“I am joy itself!”
Those words flew at her now, circled her head like birds, in his voice. Soon they were drowned out by others, in the language of her mother, and in voices that sounded almost like hers. These words she remembered.
She stretched out her arms and some of the people looked at her, but she only looked ahead. There was Paul, his back to her. He was facing her son, whose body was alight and hung from the tree in a way that was so plain that it seemed normal. She had separated herself from her child even though she loved his father. She gave him to the plantation to raise because she didn’t see the point in adoring something that would only, in time, give her the right to hate. And that was what had her in its grip now. The hate had such a sweet smell, and when she took it into her mouth, it delighted her and gave her limbs energy. She felt the pain in her hip still, but that was a good thing. Her motions returned to their even gait, which made her look and feel taller. For the first time in years, she ran. She ran toward Paul.
It had been hidden near her wrist the whole time: the metal object, the knife that Paul had told her was supposed to go on the right and then said, he never said that, it was to go on the left, and then beat her when she put it there. She didn’t raise it high, but she held it forward like seven women had told her exactly how to hold it and where it should enter his body. James and his men didn’t even see her coming. The glow coming off Samuel had them transfixed, almost as if he were still alive and doing it on purpose. And maybe it was on purpose, not because of him, but because of the beating of the toubab’s hearts, which guided them to a place where looking at their chaos brought them a sense of comfort. They had never felt so close, surely. This lit-up body had given them the reason to stand close to one another with the same look on their faces: I have found it! They had discovered something about themselves in this, a kinship closer than if they shared the same blood or the same bed. Had they given themselves completely over to the moment, which they might have had the niggers not been standing there, they may even have held one another, not with lust in the heart—well, maybe a little lust—but surely with goodwill and generosity of spirit.
Maggie crept not at all carefully around this euphoria but knew that it wouldn’t matter in the end. With bent hands that found new power, she lunged forward. The tip of the knife met Paul at the back of his neck and slid through much more quietly than she had expected. Aside from his head tilting back some, he made no attempt to move or turn. It was as though he had been expecting it and so let it be, or not expecting it at all and so froze in shock. He fell forward with the knife still left in its place, and Maggie breathed heavily as every eye widened and looked first at the body and then at her.
1:4
James picked up his rifle and pointed it at her, but he couldn’t look directly at her for reasons that still disturbed him. He would have to rely on memory. But before he could take his shot, he was tackled by Adam, who came up from behind. They wrestled on the ground, tearing at each other. James saw rage streak across Adam’s face and then he saw his teeth. When Adam banged his forehead against James’s, James thought he might pass out, but he managed to maintain his tight grip on his rifle.
They struggled over James’s rifle and when it went off, it was Adam’s eyes that got wider before the blood trickled from his lips. The nigger who didn’t look like a nigger unless you got up close and tilted your head and squinted.
James let out the breath he didn’t even know he was holding as everything around him slowed to a crawl. A body on top of him, he saw over the dead man’s shoulder. He saw all of their faces, people and niggers; the cowardly and the courageous; struck by the lightning of their tussle; voices deep, stretched, and unintelligible; hands clawed, each grasping for, and gasping for, the last measure of life left to hold. Surely, as things began to return to their natural speed, he found himself, eyes wide open, caught in the middle of a shout:
“Shoot, fools!”
He was angry that he had to tell his marksmen to move and not stand there in some kind of stupor, but also understanding that this was the end-nigh that each of them had kept buried in his loins in order to pretend that the tingle was sensuous and not apprehensive.
Over in the crowd that had begun to swell, toward the back, there was a moment, just before the firing began, when tearful Essie thought she had been given a vision. She held on to Solomon tightly and began to step farther backward, even though none of the rifles were pointed directly at her.
Then there was thunder.
1:5
A shot rang out and somebody fell. The others, some ran; Zeke, Malachi, and Jonathan took off after them, laughing as though they were playing a child’s game. However, some charged, and that was the Good Night that James had feared. Shots fired and all he saw were bodies, and some of the bodies he couldn’t see because the night and the smoke from the body conspired. Somehow, though, his aim was still reliable, and if it weren’t for the nigger who tackled him, he might have eventually broken the spell.
He got up and his legs carried him past tussle and shout. He stumbled and returned to his feet, turning behind him to see if there was anyone trailing him before returning to his quick step. In the dark, he couldn’t be sure how he ended up at the edges. Perhaps it was just his legs hurrying him to the spaces they knew best. But there he was: at the farthest reaches of Elizabeth, where the tumult and flame and blood were now a reasonably safe distance from him. There was nothing he could do. He didn’t feel ill or cowardly standing there, masked by the unblessed woods that surrounded him, his rifle still in his hands, and a massacre left behind. He had seen far too many of them, had almost been swept under the might of them, to care.
He had touched women as he had been touched. They fought as he had fought. They surrendered as he had surrendered. This, he figured, was the way things were. Everyone got a turn, at some point, to be on top or on bottom. It didn’t matter how good you were or how evil you were. All that mattered was that you were alive and, therefore, unsafe. Subject to His will in the here and, likely, the hereafter. And His will was as brutal as it was arbitrary.
James’s legs had finally grown tired. The ache was both unbearable and deserved. He knew that now. There was no escape, but he could retreat. His one regret: abandoning Ruth. He slung his rifle over his shoulder, the barrel pointed toward the sky. Under the half-moonlight, there were many shadows, though not as vibrant as the ones seen in the daylight. His own shadow pointed eastward, so he walked that way, swatting away insects, tripping over raised stones, until he had reached where the forest was so thick that no man could pass it. He climbed into it as best he could, getting scratched on his face and on his hands. There were now more shadows in front of him. These shadows were bigger than his. Elongated and moving wildly, like they were fighting—or preparing to. One of them made a noise, but that was impossible because shadows didn’t make noise.
Trapped in the confines of thorny and twisted roots, he snatched his rifle down and took a shot. CRACK.
The shadows froze. And then, as if they were only momentarily shocked by the sound, they merged. Big as a tree now, but wider. It hovered over James, blotting out the stars and making it seem as though everything in the universe was black. The darkness engulfed him completely. He
held tight to his rifle as he spun the best he could and let off three shots. The dark closed in on him. It felt like an embrace: warm, close. He almost extended his arms to return the sentiment, but that was when he heard the noises that took his breath: buzzing. And what was that: voices underwater?
1:6
Before, Beulah never dared dream. But Be Auntie’s dreams were silver and hot. In this place where metal was brilliant from heat, the men were lined up and obedient, even if they were toubab. They licked every part of her, but only when she commanded. Otherwise, they kept their eyes, hands, tongues, and things to themselves. Quivering, yes; anxious even; but nevertheless tucked away. She wanted to call them soldiers, but that would be wrong. The men in real life were soldiers. They were continually starting wars for any little difference of opinion and causing bloodshed that they insisted was necessary if they were to have their way. These real-life men expected her, and all women, to forget that women were always the first casualties of their lusts, claiming that Eve had made this the order of things when, truly, if you gave it even a second of thought, you would know God planned it like this from the start no matter what Amos said. In her dreams, the men were what men were supposed to be: secondary like they were in the beginning before imbalance. Useful for their strength and humor, sure, but they knew to leave the women alone to think. Therefore, finally, worthy of her worship.
Amos had come closer to this than all the men she ever knew. He left her mornings without a “good” and nights without an “evening,” but he lay next to her all the same. He raised no hands, but he did touch her in the way she liked to be touched: with her permission, always with her permission. Not silver just yet, but hot.
She was smiling in her sleep, touching her lips, when the toubab came to get them. The boys leaped up from around her and dashed outside when they heard a noise. Their thundering startled her awake. She was groggy, and her vision still blurred, but she saw the rifles.
“Sons?”
Be Auntie’s heart beat in her throat. Her tongue was dry, which told her that death would be walking the plantation for a while, snatching up the bluest of berries, even the ones that didn’t know that what was wrong with them all along was that they were blue.
“But it’s okay. I know my boys is gon’ protect me. I raised them rightly. If not them, Amos,” Be Auntie said just before the toubab entered her shack. She sat down and smiled a big smile right into those pale-as-hail faces. Slowly, slowly, so slowly that the toubab didn’t even see, the smile faded when she noticed that none of her boys came running in after them. Not even Dug.
They couldn’t all be dead. All six of them? So quick? Nah. And none of them tapped her, woke her from her pretty sleep to tell her to run even? Can’t be. Not after what she gave. Not after what she saved, turned over, made room for, and squirted out of her nipples to keep them whole.
Amos, too?
Did he pick Essie over her?
Can’t be.
With rifles trained on her and toubab yelling for her to get on out of the place she failed to make home, which was not her fault, Be Auntie plopped down on the floor. The toubab laughed because they thought she fell by accident. She looked out front where the grassy cushion was. Toubab legs were obstructing her view so she tried to see through them. That was the easy part. It was their laughter that split her. That allowed what she thought she had digested to rise herself up out of the bowels and into her center. Ooh, it was cold, gray, and funky; vines crept and the mist stuck close to the ground. Then she burst through, hands first, holding red carnations. Not even the courtesy of a hug. Got her nerve!
Yes. Beulah began to climb out, partly by mouth, partly by ear. While exiting the latter, she whispered, harmonizing with herself: “I tried to tell you.”
1:7
Bodies fell, but Essie held on to Solomon, and beside his head, she could see that some of the people had stormed the toubab, Sarah leading them. There, in the middle of Empty, the writhing crowd of bodies must have looked like a festering wound from above, but nothing had ever before been so beautiful. Essie continued to step back, in awe of that beauty and seeking her own, until she was behind the barn and hidden by the trees that bordered the riverbank.
She held Solomon tighter. He trembled momentarily but didn’t cry. He kept trying to turn around, to see where the noise was coming from, like he was drawn to it, like conquest was his birthright and this had to be seen to be understood so it could never happen again. Essie looked down at his chubbiness. He looked like his father.
She bit her lip, almost hard enough to draw blood, but it didn’t prevent memory from choking her from the inside. Only one thing had been denied her. Well, not only one thing, but this was the thing from which all other denials had sprung: No. Her No had no weight and no bearing, and so how could it ever have any mercy?
This, then, was her No. A little late, perhaps. A little too late, but here it was, nonetheless, bright and difficult, but tangible.
They had made a terrible mistake. They had given the child to the wrong woman. They should have let Be Auntie take it. For she, above all, loved these kinds of children. Instead, they had given it to the woman who thought splitting it through the middle and sharing the halves with whomever wanted them was reasonable recompense. They knew who she was (clearly, they didn’t) and she was obliged to be her. She hadn’t lived up to herself, but that was over and she would disappoint them no further.
The crickets warned her in screeching song, but she ignored them. The moon shot down half-light, but still bright enough that she could see the child’s round face, gentle especially when he looked away.
She reached the bank and looked into the black waters before her. She smiled at how calm they were and felt shame at being the one who would disturb them. She held the child close to her, tighter, and tighter still, until he began to squirm and fight. She was surprised by the strength in his tiny body, but she held on, used all of her strength until she heard a snap and the body fell limp. She raised Solomon’s body high above her head. It was as though she were showing someone in the sky the evidence for which he would be convicted. Then, in one quick motion, she threw him into the river.
It swallowed him with barely a gulp.
1:8
Puah’s grief laid her out on a field in the middle of a war. Every part of her wanted to lie right there, close her eyes, and wait for the wolves to do what nature created them to do. And after her bones had been picked clean, after her flesh had been digested and shat out, maybe a bouquet of poppies would sprout wherever her remains had nourished the soil. Maybe nature would remember her long after everyone had forgotten.
She closed her eyes to prepare when a hand grabbed her.
“Get up, girl!”
It was Sarah.
Puah ignored her because there was no reason to get up only to be shot back down. Puah closed her eyes again.
“Mercy, gal! I don’t wanna be the one to say, sister. I don’t wanna have to be the one to say,” Sarah said. She got to her knees and looked deeply at Puah. “But you gon’ have to put down hard things and get yourself up.”
Puah smiled at the indignant tone in Sarah’s voice. Perhaps she thought it a gentle, warm correction that lifted her up between the shoulder blades and offered There, there now, sweet child.
“They did this,” Puah replied.
Sarah nodded her head. “I know it. Couldn’t be nobody but what they is. But you gon’ have to put him away. Now. Because all you can do for him now is run.”
Puah didn’t move.
“This is me and you know it, Puah. Let troubled things keep they distance,” Sarah said.
Puah continued to curl and linger.
“What I tell you ’bout this, Puah? Get on up. We gotta go.”
“Where?” Puah asked.
Sarah looked into Puah’s eyes. “Do you see me?”
“I see
circles. They wobbly like. And you look blue, but soft.”
“Up, chile, up.”
“But where we . . .”
“Any damn where but here!”
“Sarah,” Puah said, and her words were slurred. “Samuel.”
“Get up. I done told you from the start: Hold your things! Tie them up in a place where only you can reach it. And reach for them only when you ain’t got no other choice. When the beasts threaten to stampede you. When the hole get so big you ’bout to fall in it. When you look in the river and the thang looking back at you, you ain’t never seen before. Ain’t that what I been telling you? Ain’t I been plaiting that right into that big ol’ head of your’n? You done let it go carelessly and now look. It spread out right here on the ground waiting for the hooves to come stomping on it. Get up, gal. I said: Get. Your. Ass. Up!”
Finally, Puah raised her shaking fingers. Sarah grabbed them. She pulled Puah up and Puah leaned her weight into her. They began first to walk, then, holding hands, they began to sprint. Gunshots startled them and they kept moving through the trees and made their way to the river. What they couldn’t see, they felt around for. Nothing. There was nothing except rocks and twigs, and two bodies.
“Can you see who it is?” Puah asked.
Sarah squinted. “Naw.”
Puah grabbed her chest. She stood for a moment and looked back through the trees. She took a breath and then stepped forward toward the river. She looked at Sarah.
“We could swim.”
“My big ass can’t swim. Never could. But look—you gotta do it.”
The Prophets Page 34