The Prophets(106)

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.