The Prophets(110)

They had known what it was to be hungry, but what they didn’t know were the miles between that and starvation because they hadn’t yet seen a man poison himself, picking the wrong leaf to chew and satiate the pain that tore at the gut after five days when not even raccoon meat was forthcoming.

To be without a working well was the worst. The river water was full of salt and upset the belly. And rain couldn’t be counted on because this land was fickle like that. And at most, you could catch a handful before the pouring stopped for no reason other than spite. Never mind the wolves and the snakes and the gators, all teeth and all waiting for a fool to stumble. And what about the babies? How can you bring along a baby into this and muffle its cries when the milk runs dry because the mother’s belly is empty?

No, Empty wasn’t in no ways safe, but it was reliable. And what all could a people who had nothing—and would never have nothing so long as toubab remade the world in their own lonesome image—hope for except to know the who, what, when, why, where, and how of their misery?

I ain’t rotten fruit; I a man.

“Come, be safe in my arms.”

No need to fear, no need, he thought to say to the bodies living and dead. Some of the living would respond to his call because if in the untoward night someone held up a light, however dim, evincing arms open for embrace, where if those arms could not protect, they could at least offer that you wouldn’t die alone, there was, at last, a direction. But neither Essie nor Be Auntie was among them and that pierced him in places hidden and in plain sight.

Amos stood next to Paul’s body, and the people gathered there, encircling them both. That was the safest place to be: weeping around the body of the master of land, while all the others ran wild and free. When the cavalry arrived—and trust: they would be a-coming—he would give them all of their names. Starting with hers.

“All we wanted was a little quiet, huh. Massa, can you manage that for us? A little quiet, and maybe . . . some peace?” When he received no answer: “We stay here with you. We stay.”

He was certain the shots wouldn’t come near because he had seen and already been touched by the Blood. He looked up and saw Maggie. He stood there, in the middle of everything, looking downcast at Maggie, though she herself seemed to be rising up the slope from the tree to the Big House, but he still chose to look at her downward. Their eyes met. Only he had tears in his. He raised his hand slowly, pointing at her. Accusing her. Of what? She would understand and only she. That was why she smiled and turned her back to him. Still, he needed to say it aloud, for the benefit of witnesses. It didn’t matter that it would simply land at her heels.

“They was putting us in danger. All I was trying to do was keep us safe.”





1:11


In the middle of nothing, there was music.

Maggie stood above everything, facing east; the light from far off couldn’t reach her yet, but she knew it was coming. She bent and snatched up the torch that James used to cook her baby, the only one who remained and who she thought was better off not knowing, but she saw, with her own eyes, that he had found something good in this life that would make his short time here bearable. She gathered up the torch and limped quickly back to the Big House.

It was dark inside, and even if the torch had not lit her way, she knew every inch of the house better than she knew the slim curves of her body. This was the place where she was damned, so its contours and boundaries, even its most secret crevices, were all known to her, known and committed viciously to memory. Each spot had a story. The cotton-filled chair was where she was made to stand for hours on a bad hip as the Halifaxes entertained their guests. The fireplace that almost consumed her when Paul pushed her too close. She could have fell down the fucking stairs—and she called them that for good reason—if not for her quick reflexes. And those bitter mirrors. Oh! The house was lawless.

She walked through it anyway because what choice did she have? Up the stairs and into Massa Paul’s room to start at the core, as fire should cleanse from the inside out. She held the torch to the bed and only looked long enough to see it ignite. Then she went back outside, torch in hand, and headed to the fields.

How she despised those rows! Each so very neat in their appearance, all of them methodical and rigid, but also offering up the kind of softness that claimed lives. She walked up and down, quicker even than her injury would allow, possessed as she felt by something very old beside her, running in unison, spears pointed forward. She thought, What it look like if it were them, for once? If they had been split from their children; if they had to toil for no wages and meager sustenance; if they backs had been mangled for the slightest offense or none at all; if they fingers were stripped to the bone picking and picking and, damn it, picking; if it was they heads that had been placed haphazardly on spikes for a stretch of miles. How it feel if they were under? They might not know soon, but eventually, they would know. And they knew, too. That was why they cradled guns like offspring.

With a gentle motion, she began to burn the plants as she walked by them. The sizzle filled the air, and hearing it gave her over to herself, made her feel that her body was, finally, her own. As each bush became a torch, she looked back at the Big House, and in an upper window, inside an upper room, she saw a figure just . . . standing there. Standing there looking, maybe at her, maybe at the people in the distance as they swarmed and reclaimed their dignity with the swiftness that comes when it’s long overdue. But the figure didn’t move. It became just another window dressing, and that was how she knew it was Missy Ruth.