The Prophets(113)

“Women in the water. They defend you,” Maggie had once told them at the river’s edge, looking at the unmoving forest on the other side.

“Don’t know what you mean, ma’am,” Isaiah said.

She smiled. “They black.” She laughed and slapped her knee. “Well, of course they black.”

Samuel wasn’t paying much attention. He seemed lost in his own mind, fist tightening, mouth pressing. Isaiah, on the other hand, was listening intently, but he was still confused. Maggie thought she had cleared up his confusion by saying, “No, not women in the water. Women is the water.”

Had she somehow seen? Did she somehow know? Wordlessly and in the mind, and thought to offer up the only protection she could give for their journey? An invocation ancient as the water itself? Was that what Sarah was teaching him by the river that afternoon?

He knelt there in the muddiness, the river’s rush drowning out most other sounds. He prepared to get up and make his way into the forest behind him. But a hand grabbed his ankle.

How did they creep up on him so soundless? Had he been so distracted that he’d become willing prey? Bless his contemplating heart.

He didn’t have the strength to fight none of them now—not James, Jonathan, Zeke, Malachi, none of them. He let his breath come as it might and didn’t even try to kick them off. He remained there on his knees hoping that they would kill him before they dragged him back across the river. He closed his eyes and awaited the bullet to his face.

Then a familiar voice panted his name.

“’Zay!”

He opened his eyes and was sure that he was dreaming.

“Samuel?” Isaiah’s eyes opened wide as he saw Samuel standing before him, dripping wet.

Samuel smiled. “Here,” he said.

Isaiah jumped up and squeezed him as though he were trying to be one part of him. He shook his head. He looked at him and touched him all over his face with both hands, searching for the truth of things, using his fingers to confirm belief.

“Man, what you doing? You gon’ poke my eye out!”

“I beg your pardon.” Isaiah gasped between sobs. “You here.”

“I told you I be right behind.”

Isaiah grabbed him again and held on to him.

“You hate me?”

Samuel pulled his head back and looked Isaiah square in the eyes. “Hate you? Man, after all this you ask me such a fool question?”

They held on. Samuel kissed Isaiah’s ear. “I gotta go,” he whispered.

“What you say?” Isaiah looked at Samuel, not sure he had heard what he did over the water’s rush.

“We gotta go.”

Isaiah nodded, squeezed both of Samuel’s hands in both of his. They released each other and headed into the forest.

There was no trail to follow. The bush was overgrown and took up all space, uninterrupted as it was by human hands. There was no break in the canopy, not a single bit of starlight could penetrate the dense woods. Isaiah and Samuel broke their way in, moving as swiftly as they could as tired as they were, tearing at branches and vines, stepping on rocks and worms. The hissing of snakes caused them to pick up their pace. They listened for the owls; that would give them some inkling of direction until they could once again see sky.

After what seemed like hours of breaking, falling, pushing, and stepping, they came to a clearing. The ground was soft and wet beneath them and the air was heavy with the scent of cedar. Animals were howling and mosquitoes whizzed about. Leaves rustled in the breeze and an owl hooted. With the night sky once again exposed, Isaiah and Samuel could see the outlines of each other, which was enough. They stood there facing each other, ebony and midnight blue in the faint light of the moon and stars. Their breath came hard and their chests heaved in unison. They were too tired, scared, and hungry to smile, but their lips curled in that direction anyway.

“You think we far enough in?” Isaiah exhaled.

“I don’t know, but I gotta rest. Just a minute.”

Samuel lay against a sycamore tree whose trunk was covered with moss.

“They say moss grows on the north side of trees,” he said softly.

“So then we should head that-a-way,” Isaiah said, pointing to the other side of the clearing.

Samuel didn’t reply. He just breathed in deeply and exhaled for a long time. Almost too long. His breath became labored. Isaiah came over to the tree, stood in front of Samuel, and leaned in.

“You all right?”

Samuel smiled between heavy breaths. “Think so. Just tired. Thirsty. Hungry, too.”

Isaiah sniffed around for anything edible. He couldn’t find chicory, cattail, or clovers, but he did find some fireweed, its bright color making it a little easier to spot. He walked quickly back over to the sycamore tree.

“This was all I could find for now, but when day breaks I can find something else . . .”

Samuel was curled up on the ground.

“Sam!”

Isaiah knelt over him. Samuel’s face was tight. He squeezed his eyes and a little light grazed his cheek.

“I feel funny,” Samuel said as he tried, with Isaiah’s help, to stand, sliding across the surface of the tree, landing at its roots again, halting his fall with an outstretched arm. “Something ain’t right,” he said as he began to rub his hands across his chest and on his forearms. “I don’t feel right.”