Clarence pulled off the left shoe first, then the right. He cradled the Apostle’s right foot in his palm and tugged the black sock slowly. The robes were tossed to one side of the bathroom with the other dirty laundry for Lucinda to wash the next day. Clarence heard music in his head, a slow song, a foreign one crooned by a white man. He looked up and saw the Apostle’s face. The bathroom was in brilliant light. Clarence pulled the Apostle’s belt buckle and the pants fell. He shut his eyes.
York’s hands were on his shoulders, squeezing. Clarence expected a man’s squeeze, not soft, and the Apostle held him firm. But then he squeezed tighter. He grabbed tighter still, digging his fingers into Clarence’s shoulders as if to pull the bones out. Clarence looked up in shock. The Apostle grunted, his eyes rolled back, and his head jerked.
“Apostle?” Clarence whimpered, trying to pry the hands off his shoulders. The Apostle was yelling now and he shuddered and swayed as if having a drunken fit. Clarence pulled his grip loose and the Apostle staggered, falling into the bath.
“Apostle!”
The shower curtain popped away from its hinges one by one. Water burst from the tap. The Apostle bellowed. Clarence froze.
“Apostle?”
“It’s him! Abba babbaha ricocasrabotok!”
“Apos—”
“It’s him, ricocasrabotok! He’s attacking me! From that goddamn house, the son of a bitch is attacking me! Aahhh!”
“Who? Who attacking?”
“Him, you fucking imbecile! Bligh! Bligh!” The shower erupted but York raised two fingers and the water stopped. He was out of breath yet climbed out. Clarence reached to help him and was pushed away. Clarence tried again.
“Get the fuck away from me!”
Clarence felt a punch to his chest that sent him slamming against the door. But the Apostle had not touched him; York was rubbing his scalp.
“Get my Five. Get them now. It ends tonight, goddamn. Tonight! Get me my Five! I want that fucking bastard dead right now, so help me! Right now!”
The Widow’s yard was ridden with carrion; stinking vulture flesh and scattered feathers. Somehow, whenever a John Crow landed on her grass it fell immediately to its death. Or perhaps crow had begun to eat crow. From her window she had seen them fall. She looked behind her to Bligh’s closed door and wondered if he was writing on the wall still. There was a rumble and the window shook suddenly. All the John Crows that waited on Mr. Garvey’s roof took off at once. She turned her gaze to the gate and there they were.
Men and women, some of whom she had known all her life. Some who were neither friend nor enemy. They were all in front of her gate, side by side in a perfect line. At first they were silent and seemed not to blink. Then the throng parted and Brother Vixton came to the front, stroking his whip like an extension of himself. Much younger than the Widow, he waved his youth like his whip. He was the tallest of The Five and he lumbered like a field slave having won freedom and purpose. He saw her.
“Unu remember what Proverbs Seven say?
“Unu remember what Proverbs Seven say?
“Me say if unu remember what Proverbs Seven say?”
Brother Vixton turned his back to the Widow and scolded the crowd. He raised his whip high and they staggered back, some tripping over people who fell behind them.
Hearken unto me now therefore, O ye children,
and attend to the words of my mouth
let not thine heart decline to her ways
go not astray in her paths
for she has cast down man wounded
yea, many a strong man have been slain by her
Her house is the way to Hell, going down
To the chambers of death.
“This a the house! This a the house!”
The mighty man of God made one mighty step onto the Widow’s lawn and fell, first on his knees, then on his face, and his eyes went white. The ground shook like Jericho. The whip flew out of his hand and landed in the road like a dead snake. Men and women scattered, some screaming. From Brother Vixton’s eyes, nose, ears, and mouth sprung black blood. The Widow turned away. She was neither frightened nor saddened, but shivered and wept nevertheless. Below the window she collapsed, falling asleep.
The Widow dreamt of dead men who swung from whips that turned into snakes, scepters, and maypoles, which then spun off several shards of red that turned into knives that shot off in all directions, killing the first born. She awoke.
Outside, Brother Vixton’s body was shiny from dew. The night had the stillness of a painting, which may be why at first the Apostle blended in. She blinked several times and still he was real, and he looked at her, his robes blowing even though there was no wind. Everything in her wanted to run, except her feet, which were planted by the window. York’s face was the only thing that was not black with the night, so when he turned away his hair bled into the dark and he vanished.