The Prophets(25)

“Shiiiiit,” A Man Called Coot whispered back to Amos. “Excuse my tongue, but a tiny bit of nice-nice between us ain’t killed nobody yet.”

“They don’t bother nobody ’round here,” Naomi said quietly. “Some of us ain’t got a lot of time no way. Might as well steal some kind of easy before the hard have its way with you.”

But the majority of those whom Amos invited in remained silent, turned to one another with a look that Amos had seen only on the faces of toubab. It jumped from one face to the next, like lanterns being lit in quick succession. Instead of too much resistance, Amos found a frightening commonality between toubab and his own people that could be exploited quite easily. The idea that they could be better—more entitled to favor than others, have a kind of belly breeze of their own—hadn’t really occurred to them. Occasionally, Paul would show more approval toward some of them based on the speed and dexterity with which they pulled cotton, but the reward for that was more work and greater expectation, not less. Sometimes, he was a bit more lenient with the people whose color was diminished by Paul’s interference, but the cost of that was evident. Now, because of Amos, they had this new concept to reckon with: they could have access to some kind of sometime just by virtue of not being one of the excluded.

They had come to Amos two by two, but they were seduced one by one. People began avoiding Samuel and Isaiah. They would deliberately walk the long way, past the overseers and through the weeds, to dodge them on the common path to and from the field. They left tools on the ground outside the barn instead of handing them over directly to them. They bathed farther up the shore away from them. They left no room for them at fire circles. They cut their eyes and screwed their faces each time Isaiah and Samuel dared displays that remotely resembled affection.

Amos was there, down by the river, when Big Hosea attacked Samuel. Hosea had said that Samuel looked at him funny. Hosea was one of the few on the plantation who was sure he could take Samuel on. He always sought Samuel out to play-wrestle in the high weeds as a means to test his own strength. So it took nothing for him to punch Samuel square in the jaw right there at the river in front of everyone. For his trouble, Samuel nearly split Big Hosea’s head open against protruding rocks. Amos and others helped Hosea up as Isaiah held Samuel back. Hosea said Samuel looked at him in a way that made him feel defenseless, naked. Never mind that they were all naked from bathing. That look, he said, made him lunge for Samuel. Hosea’s chest was heaving. Amos told him to calm down, told him that no one blamed him for doing what came natural for men to do. No one mentioned, either, that between Big Hosea’s legs, his flesh was stiff and throbbing.

Now it was Sunday. Amos was alone as he walked through the weeds, along the cotton field, and into the clearing beyond it. Just before he entered, he could see how the light fell down in that space and made things a pale gold, but the silence, too, gave things a color. He didn’t have the language to describe it. It wasn’t like it was blue, though that is what he would have said were he less observant. He would have to be content with not having an answer for everything. “Humble yourself, Amos. Be humble.”

Once in the embrace of the clearing, he sat on the rock, crossed his legs at the ankles, brought his hands together, and started to pray. When he was done, he opened his eyes wide, for he had heard the whisper. He brought his hand to his mouth. There was a faint frown on his lips. No, he thought, but the whispering voice was quietly Yes.

The first of his congregation broke through the trees and into the clearing. Amos straightened up. It was Be Auntie, and she was holding Solomon, who was whining just a little.

“Good morning, ma’am. Good morning,” he said.

Amos looked down at Solomon. His mouth tried to smile, but his eyes didn’t.

Hush.





Genesis

Here is not where we begin, but it is where we shall begin. For you to know us. For us to know you. But mainly, for you to know yourself.

We have names, but they are names you can no longer pronounce without sounding as foreign as your captors. That is not to condemn you. Believe us: we know the part we played in it, even if just through our ignorance and fascination with previously unknown things. Forgive us. The only way we can repay that debt is by telling you the story that we give to you through our blood.

All memory is kept there. But memory is not enough.

You are the vessel, you see, so that is why you must not give in to the temptation of the long sleep. Who will tell it if not you?

You can never be an orphan. Do you understand? The night sky itself gave birth to you and covers you and names you as her children above all others. First born. Best adorned. Highest thought. Most loved.

And despise not the dark of your skin, for within it is the prime sorcery that moved us from belly-crawl to tall-walk. From the screaming, we brought forth words and mathematics and the dexterity of knowledge that coaxed the ground to offer up itself as sustenance. But do not let this make you arrogant.

Arrogance brings you lower, down from the mountaintops where you were breastfed. Like where you are now, down in the bottomless. Where separation is normal and joy is found in indecent places.

To fold yourself in on yourself is where you will find power. Risen out of circles at the bottoms of oceans. By hands that stitched the cosmos so that it might be primed at the beginning of everything. A little pageantry never hurt anyone. It is all right for you to find humor in that. We like to hear your laughter.