Abba babba a maka desh.
We pray to the living God who is the Father and the Son through the Vicar of God who sits pon the left hand of the Father. The Vicar is the creation of the Son who is one with the Son but also the Father.
Rekelo baba lacosa.
We have come to bring praise to he who is most high. We enter his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise. We present ourselves as the living sacrifice entreating the Father to receive the Son of the Son in his most Holy place.
Sikosa rabokok mieshande ribobaba.
The enemy we defeat. Is so prophecy go. The walker in darkness get bring into the light. We thank the Mighty One for victory over the kingdom of spirits. We thank the Father and send the servant of darkness back into darkness.
Oh bababa lajakmeh sikethacoco.
Amen.
The Widow woke up to a threat. One more minute and the pictures would have cut through skin. She reached for them between dress and breast. The Widow placed them on the table like cards and studied them carefully. They were all faded to sepia and they all provoked the same response. Boys, some small and featureless, some with more than a few facial and pubic hairs, all in undress. Some had their legs crossed, some were spread wide like cherubs caught in knowledge of their sex. They were no longer boys but dolls, warped and reshaped into somebody’s reflection. Like the girls on those playing cards that Mr. Greenfield kept in his secret place. In all her years of suspecting Mr. Garvey of sodomy and seeing his several nephews, she never married the two. Her mind traveled to places she had not thought thinkable. Such sickness and perversion tormented her, reduced her to a child’s fear of darkness. She looked at pictures of boys, spread like women, some in makeup and hats, and she imagined demons raping tiny holes of innocence and inexperience. There were others that needed no imagining, their buttocks free but their mouths stuffed with what went beyond her ability to believe. The only way to pull herself out was to imagine them unreal, or French, as her husband would have said to explain anything obscene. That was the only way she knew to make them unremarkable, to take her heart out. She would have succeeded were it not for the third photograph, which she had passed over twice. The picture had blurred into the others before, but now a face slid into focus.
From a mop of wild black hair, the signs came. Eyes sparkled from brown skin that was light but darker than the others. The same brown skin, the same eyes, and the same wet, unruly hair that blew over his shoulders even in the stillness of the picture.
“Hector! Hector! Hector! Come quick! Hect—” A silence came upon her, overwhelmed her completely. The quiet punished her for perception. The Widow remained standing, accepting his absence from the house. Her blue dress seemed a stupid thing. She no longer wished to wear it. She wanted to peel the memory of him, the musk of him, away from her skin. The stench of dead John Crows drifted through the house. She went into his room and sat amid a confluence of words and symbols. She remained there until nightfall.
Abba babba a maka desh.
We declare the Kingdom of 1000 years. To the light of the Father and soon-coming King. We His other sheep bow down before Him. We invoke His presence in the name of the Most High.
Friday morning broke through the gray sky. The Rude Boys were already up. They had a big job and big tools to match. The noise they made had the rhythm of industry, the clang, crunch, and smash of purpose. Hammers and pickax clubbed away, setting off shards that ricocheted off the bridge. The Apostle gave them until 1:30.
“You know, they used to keep uppity niggers in line with that thing round your neck. What d’you make of that?” said the Apostle as he saw the Pastor. The room was dusky and Bligh’s neck was in shackles, which The Five found in Brother Vixton’s house. A chain went from the ceiling to Bligh’s neck, holding him in place. His hands were tied behind him. “I’m figuring you had some schooling, so I know that you see the irony in this, this being your room.”
“The syphilis rot out your mind.”
“Now there’s a thought. But what do I know about thinking, I have syphilis. How did you know, by the way?”
“You see plenty when you preach in hospital. Lucas.”
The Apostle froze. “A hospital in Kingston? I see.”
“Yes, Kingston. Lucas.”
“Lucas York is dead. I killed him myself.”
“You’re not dead. Just sick.”
“Sick? That’s all? Three months of sparring and all you can call me is sick? Come now, Bligh, only that? That Sunday you knew me more than any man or woman, or God for that matter, and you still don’t know the half. You know I’m not possessed, that was your mistake, and yet spirits are all around me. I can get one to fuck you if you wish. Think of it as a goodbye gift.”
“Keep your damn demon,” Bligh said, looking at his feet.
“Just between you and me, I think they prefer spirits. Well, if you don’t want that kind of spirit, how about the other kind? Can’t you feel it? That whiskey calling you like a girl who never says no?”
“No.”
“Nobody would blame you, Bligh, if you disappeared in a whiskey bottle right now. It might even save you. Should I get some? How about Johnny Walker Red, though you strike me more as a Black? You know, I had this hunch you’d say yes, so look what I brought.”
In the Apostle’s hand was a bottle of whiskey, glimmering with gold.
“Keep your liquor. I have the Holy Spirit.”
“And how is that going for you? Are you quenched? Are you in high spirits? Or would you prefer this one? I can keep a secret.”
“I don’t want it—”
“You don’t want it straight or you don’t want it now?”
“I don’t want it ever.”
“Ever. That’s a mighty long time. Maybe you’ve just forgotten the taste, now that you’re so righteous and all. Poor little whiskey, dying from jealousy. ‘If only he could taste me,’ she said. If only.” The Apostle pulled the cap and held the bottle over Bligh’s head. “‘If only he could taste me,’ she said.” He poured the whiskey over Bligh’s forehead. Hector shut his eyes tight as Johnny Walker ran down his face and wetted his lips.
“Just stick that big tongue out, there’s a good lad,” said the Apostle. “One sip, Bligh. Come now, Bligh, the whiskey’s a-wasting. Bligh? Bliiiiiigh. Look at that now, all done. No more whiskey. You try to give black people things and—”
“God curse you.”
“I think you got the tense wrong. But that’s fine, God curse me? I curse him back.” Apostle York sat down in the room’s one chair which leaned against the doorway.
“The Bible is just a book, Bligh. An incomplete, inconclusive book. Your church calls itself the Church of St. Thomas, and yet your same church forbids the Gospel of St. Thomas. There’s so much, Bligh, so much your ignorant little negro mind can’t comprehend. Like Solomon. I’ve read books of Solomon that you’ve never heard of.”
“This is history class or you just love talk?”
“No, this isn’t history, this is the present. But you’ll soon be—history, that is.”
“Black arts goin kill you.”
“Black arts? Black arts? You mean magic? This isn’t magic, fool. This is the true work of God!”
“It will kill you.”
“It keeping me alive! No doctor could help me. By the time they found out what I was suffering from, I was as good as fucked. But I don’t need no physician, I am the great physician. God. You see God? God is a figment. A level. A process. I followed the same process and I became God.”
“Now I know you mad. Nobody can become God. God was never born and will never die, He is the I am.”
“Lie. Darkness made Him, light shape Him, and people colored up the ugly parts. You, Bligh, you same one; if you close your eyes right now and pray to God, you think of somebody who looks exactly like me. My hair, my beard, my eyes, my skin—”
“Your pox.”
“To Hell with you.”
“Is not me Satan waiting on.”
“How you figure that?”
“You go and sin with your privates and catch a disease and now you blame God. How long since you get it?”
“Get it? You talk as if I had it coming. This was given to me, Bligh. Call it God’s gift. God gave syphilis to me.”
“Blasphemy. God don’t give disease, He is the healer. You telling a lie.”
“I am the way and the truth.”
“The father of lies.”
“Gibbeah would rather have my lies than your truth. Why do they follow me so easily, Bligh? So quick, without question? I give them something God can’t give. Listen, I’m taking this whole village down with me. You should have left when you had the chance. You don’t belong here.”
“Neither do you. These people didn’t do you nothing—”
“You fucking idiot! How far, eh? How far must a knife go in your chest before you realize you’re being fucked with? How do you think I know every name? How do you think I recognize every face? I was here, Hector. I was here even when Uncle Aloysius brought your sorry, drunk arse to Gibbeah. The only reason that man hired you is because you were as blind then as you are now. Not so mad now, eh? This syphilis came from God. From the man of God who preceded you. Aloysius Garvey’s good friend and rape-mate. Is it coming to you now? Why don’t you say his name with me? Yes, Pastor Palmer. I have the scars to prove it, shall I drop my pants and show you?”
“No.”
“Look at that, a Pastor who couldn’t keep his cock in his pants. Sound like anybody you know?”
“God was with you. Even then, God was with you.”
“No. God was with the preacher who was lying in the bed with me. But you know, I’m starting to feel redeemed. Thank you, Bligh, thank you. I think I’m believing this Bible now; that God suffers with me, really, I do. I can just see Him crucified by his own father for kicks. God didn’t help me. He could have given me freedom, but He didn’t. He could have given me joy or peace, but He didn’t. You didn’t even notice me. Not even once. I leave a year after you came and you didn’t even notice.”
The Apostle coughed, blinking his eyes until the wet glimmer of tears was gone.
“But I don’t blame you. I blame God. At the very least, He could have made me not feel the fucking pain, but He didn’t. God left me and forsook me, so I did the same to that son of a bitch. You know what I did? I studied him. I read everything from Apocrypha to Luther to Augustine to Faust. And I read more. And I learned something. God is real, Jehovah is a myth. Jehovah is a thing people invent to excuse horrible shit as if it had some purpose. But there is none, you see, that’s what Satan knew all along. There is no purpose. There’s no meaning, no teaching, no greater good to come out of sucking my fake uncle’s cock. There’s just my mouth and his cock. Nothing else. Like God, God is nothing. I used God’s nothing to become something, and damn if I’m not dragging God to Hell with me.”
“No.”
“Then I started to read people who realized what I did, that God had a limit. Stuff from Solomon. That lying Bible would tell you that Solomon got stupid when he strayed; no, he got even more wise. That’s when he started making sense. He could command angels and demons and gain wisdom that God had been fearing from man ever since Eve bit the apple. Knowledge, Bligh. That’s how you become God. Now angels and demons do my will too.”
“No.”
“Then I came back. You think Uncle was happy to see me? Him and his new batch of boys? You know what he did when we got too strong for him? Send us off to boarding school for more men to fuck with us. But I came back. I came back in the same clothes his preacher friend used to wear. The skinny black fucker thought I came bringing forgiveness, until he saw my sword. Cutlass, actually. Chop his head clean off. Then I chopped off his curse. Then I chopped up every little new demon he was growing in that house. Most of them were still sleeping when I send them to Hell.”
“No.”
“No? Not at all. I belong here, Bligh. I belong with these people. I belong with all these fuckers who suspected or even knew what my uncle was, but let their nigger ways allow it. And those same nigger ways now allowing me.
“I belong here. I drove you out but you wouldn’t leave. Now I can’t do anything for you.”
12:15. Apostle York had said 2:00. He declared it last night. Mrs. Fracas was getting ready. She had not worn the black dress since Lillamae’s funeral. She cursed it for being the most expensive yet least useful dress. But the Lord had taught her that what seems useless may have not yet come into purpose. People were like that too. She looked at herself in the mirror and saw the miraculous slimming powers of pin stripe. God was going to use her as his instrument today.
Deacon Pinckney used his two good eyes to admire himself in his mirror. Tony Curtis had no black so he wore white: his grandfather’s pants and his mother’s blouse.
Clarence’s tie was crooked. From behind and facing the mirror, the Apostle tugged until it was straight. He smoothed out the shoulders of his jacket, then handed him pants to match.
Brother Jakes picked out a black veil for his wife, who had before decided not to go. The swelling around her battered eye signified her change of heart. A long dress made sure that her whipped thighs and bruised hands would be concealed as well. Even the children were dressed and ready.
The Rude Boys were finished. Two o’clock came and passed, so they left the tools and went home to change. The bridge had fallen to a cataclysmic crash, the sound of life coming undone, collapsing and killing other lives underneath. Through a series of night services the Apostle had shown them how it was possible. God’s people only needed God after all. York was serious.
The children were restless. Most were upset enough about wearing Sunday clothes on a Sunday, but this was Friday. Some of the children wondered why they stopped going to the school ten miles down past the valley. Today they were bound in stiff pants and starched shirts and dresses and shoes sent in barrels from Englan and New Yawk along with wide ties made for adults. The Pastor had told them that they were going to play a new game. And God wanted them looking their best.
Brother Jakes’s oldest son had also decided not to come. His subsequent brutal beating sealed his own prophecy. This was not a day for children to disobey fathers; this was a day to submit to Apostle York as if to God. This was the day that the Lord had made, and this was His work. Clarence dressed the Apostle. He straightened his necktie and wiped away lines of dirt from York’s shoes with his fingers. Clarence then guided the robes over the Apostle’s head gently, so that his hands slipped through the sleeves. The layers of cloth fell around him like a shower. Clarence gave the Apostle his red book and his black book, then he gave him something else.
The front door swung open and the Widow leapt through yelling.
“Is what unu do with him? Is what unu do wi—” The street was empty. The silence stunned her. Usually, if given time, the street could answer any question. But Brillo Road refused her. The Widow felt alone, more alone than she did in her empty house.
Mary.
She turned around, but no one was there. She went back inside the house. It was different now, smelling of neither her, Mr. Greenfield, nor the Pastor. A new smell that was already an old one; a familiar one whose meaning she knew. She knew the voice as well. The Widow went to the kitchen and took out the chicken that she had already seasoned. She turned on the gas stove. Then she went into the bedroom and took out another blue dress.
Lucinda was in her room combing her hair in two and plaiting the ends. She had heard the Apostle’s decree and though told to stay away, she put on her mother’s black dress anyway. It was only fitting, she had become her mother, another woman for whom men reflected the failure of life. She heard whispers coming from the mirror. Outside, below her, the dust awoke.
The Apostle stood at the door of the church looking out. He licked his lips and tasted the person behind him. “Clarence, tell the people that God is ready.”
Sikasa raboka makasetha likoso.
Go down Emmanuel Road
Gal an boy
Fi go broke rock-stone
Go down Emmanuel Road
Gal an boy
Fi go broke rock-stone
Broke them one by one
Gal an boy
Broke them two by two
Gal an boy
Finger mash don’t cry
Gal an boy
Remember a play we deh play
Since the truck stop come and gone, plenty rock-stone did leave. The Apostle say the truck bring evil spirit back into the village and anything of evil we have to cut it out! Cut it out! Cut it out!
A few came before, a few after, but most came at once, gathering in a jagged circle near the bridge where the stonebreakers used to work. The wind stirred up marl dust and grayed black jackets, dresses, and pants. Mrs. Fracas brought her umbrella. The only thing Estrella had that was black was her miniskirt. Nobody noticed. Brother Jakes stood up with more than enough pride for his ashamed wife and missing son. Mrs. Smithfield waved her hands to fan her face against the heat. A mumble rose but fell as soon as they saw the Apostle coming behind Clarence, who cradled his red and black books. He waved his fingers and the choir, scattered among the crowd, began to sing “Amazing Grace.”
“I say this unto you. Listen to what the Lord is saying, you followers of John Eight, verse seven. You hear the scriptures incorrectly. You misinterpret the word of the Father and as such are deceived by the Devil. When the Lord asked for he who is without sin to cast the first stone, He spoke to Jews and to Gentiles. We are neither Jew nor Gentile but Christian. To those who are reborn of the Lord we are no longer with sin. And if you are in Him you are a new …”
“Creation.”
“I said, if you are in him you are a new …”
“NEW CREATION!”
“Hallelujah! Praise God!” He waved his hand and suddenly there was a scuffle and a shout. From behind the church they came. Three of The Five, dressed in black and dragging the Rum Preacher. Bligh tripped. Deacon Pinckney picked up the chain and pulled him through the dirt. The Preacher held onto the chain lest the deacon break his neck. The other three flanked but did not touch him as he rolled and scraped against the gravel and marl. The Preacher mumbled to himself. The children thought he was a mad animal.
The deacon was enjoying this too much. He yanked with force where none was necessary, sometimes facing the crowd and smiling as he did so. Each time the Preacher tried to walk, the deacon would pull, and Bligh would fall, the ground bruising his skin. The white marl made him ghostly. He was a wraith; a trapped night spirit brought out into day. His eyes were red, the only sign that within him ran blood. Deacon Pinckney pulled until he was in the center of the circle. The children gawked, the men and women thought of punishment and stayed fixed on the Apostle.
“Father, we obey Your decree of First Corinthians. Today we expel the man who was once our brother, but is now a vessel of iniquity. And so, Father, we send him back from whence he came. Back to Hell with his father, Satan. Gibbeah makes an atonement in bloo—”
“You … y … can’t … even … say …”
“Oh! Abba babba a maka desh! Oh libreh cassakokah maka desh! Oh consuming fire, lion of the tribe of Judah! Abba Father! Rebethababa Lakosa!”
“Father, forgive him …”
“Back! Back! I bind you in the name of the Morning Star! I bind you! I bind you, Hector Blight! You are a blight on God’s precious fabric, a—”
“Gibbe … him can’t … say … na—”
“A stain on the curtain of Heaven!”
“Jesu …”
Deacon Pinckney struck him with his foot. The Preacher bit his tongue and spat blood.
“No! Don’t look into the eyes of evil! He prowls like a roaring lion looking for souls to devour. Done with the man of darkness. We shall obey the star of the morning!”
“The star of the morning is Lucif—”
“Today is the final victory. Even now God is building His wall and enclosing His Kingdom. Just like Masada! Ayeh babacosa maka desh! From this day forth, Gibbeah shall always be in His presence. Suffer the children first!”
The children knew what to do. They ran quickly, returning when their hands were full. The Apostle raised both hands and Clarence raised both books.
“The scripture—”
“You never touch … scripture in y … life … Solomon fall … your fall …”
“Enough with the Devil talk!” The adults picked up rocks and flung. The children flung as if for sport. Deacon Pinckney flung with the force of a cricketer. The women held nothing back. Those whose hands were empty ran for more. The Preacher had prayed for strength, but he screamed.
“I see … Heaven open,” Bligh said, “I see Heav …”
Rocks punched their way through his flesh. A rain of rocks crushed his face and tore off his jaw. Rocks broke his hand and punctured his back and broke his skull open for pink to run through. Bligh spat his lifeblood out and it spread across the ground like the shadow of wings.
In mere minutes his body was broken and he was dead. The crowd continued until he was almost entombed in rock. The Apostle raised two fingers and they stopped.
“Behold, He cometh with clouds! And every eye shall see Him and they also who pierced Him, and all the kindreds of the Earth shall wail because of Him. Even so, Amen!
“I am the Alpha and the Ome—”
The Apostle was interrupted by the slightest of touches. A splash of white hit his shoulder and flowed down his sleeve. He looked over at the nearly covered body of the Pastor Bligh. A bird had landed on top of the stones. A dirty white bird, a dove. It hopped from stone to stone carelessly.
“I am the Alpha and the Omega! The beg—”
“RAASCLAAT!”
Mrs. Fracas pointed above and there they were. A cloud of doves in a shifty circle of white that eclipsed the sun. The children ran first but too late. In one swoop they dove into the crowd, screeching and ripping hair and flesh with claws and beaks. Brother Jakes, as he pulled two from his chest, left his face unprotected. The last thing he would see were clawed feet coming toward his eyes and the red spurt of his own blood. The birds fluttered and flapped and screamed along with the people’s screams. Mrs. Fracas, her hair knotted in birds, swung her umbrella and struck her own child. The stampede of adults trampled the children not swift enough to run out of the way. And yet more doves came, digging holes in Clarence’s face and tearing wordless pages from the Apostle’s books. They picked and clawed at Mrs. Smithfield’s daughter’s feet and she screamed. As she bent to grab those at her feet a dove landed square in her face, slashing her nose and cheek. Birds killed themselves by crashing into walls and fences, and pushed one of The Five over the edge where the bridge used to be. Deacon Pinckney stumbled and landed head first, snapping his neck. In the grocery there was an explosion followed by the whoomph! of a fire. The doves flew all the way down Brillo Road, chasing the village and ripping the skin of those who fell. They flew through doors that failed to close in time and chased children into small closets. Lucinda, watching the dust below, did not see the horde of birds before they burst through her window, shattering the glass. She screamed and swung, but they dug into her flesh with tiny, sharp beaks that tore her clothes. A dove hopped on her back and scratched through her cuts. She ran around the room as the dove’s wings flapped from her back. Outside, they knocked over stands and carts and flew into glass windows breaking their necks.
Then the doves flew away.
In the center where the stoning took place, rocks were scattered in every direction, but the Pastor’s body was gone. People shuddered in their homes. They had not seen the bridge fall, but reeled under the weight of loneliness.
The Apostle had no bruise or scrape. Nobody had seen him flee. He was in front of the Widow Greenfield’s house as the sun began to fall. He stood for several minutes before making the first step. Though his legs rose and fell with movement, his feet never touched the ground until his shoe tapped the Widow’s doorstep.
The door was open. The smell of burnt meat flew at him. Her table was set for two and from the bathroom came the steady patter of the shower. In the bedroom was her dress, pressed and laid out on the bed. The Widow was gone. The Apostle smiled to himself and left, but as he passed the table, what he saw crippled his spirit. A photograph, faded to sepia but still appalling in its detail. A boy of eleven, unwise to the world, yet deep in the knowledge of his sex. A boy who posed like a girl and received Aloysius Garvey and his fat preacher friend like a whore. A brown boy with wet, unruly black hair that glimmered like a thousand tiny eyes. The Apostle was racked with shudders. He could neither cry nor scream. Lucas, said a voice. The Apostle’s lips formed the shape of the word “Uncle,” but this he could not say. Hopelessness overcame him, but rage as well. He slammed his fist on the table, breaking it in two. Outside, the sky gathered clouds through which the dying sun shot the redness of October. Rain would fall soon.