The Prophets(107)

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.