The Prophets(41)
She pointed at it, called attention to it with her finger, like she was showing someone, though no one except whoever it was that hid in the heavens could see her. She wanted to call out to it, beckon it to come closer, but her throat closed, which let the light’s beauty remain undisturbed. She raised herself up, her back stained with the fertile soil so that from the rear, she looked like she might emerge as her own kind of flower. She let herself out of the gate, not wanting to say goodbye to the carnations because she knew, innately, that they adored her company. She promised herself that she would give them the gift of water at the first sign of sun, and she would do it herself, with her own hands, even when she didn’t have to, which would be a signpost for her sincerity, an offering of sorts.
It wasn’t far, the barn from the Big House, but she felt it, still, a journey. More of a descent, actually, like when one travels from a mountaintop down to the deepest cavern, going from closer to the sun to a place where the sun can’t even be discerned. It was a sojourn that made Ruth feel heavier, that if she remained there where people were bent and racked with pain some of which wasn’t even visible, she somehow took on the burden, too, simply by spending a long enough time in proximity to them. This raised a terror in her heart, but it didn’t dissuade her from embarking.
There was something a tad sweet in the aching and Ruth felt it in her feet. They went from moist soil, to dry, hard ground, and just as she reached the edge of the barn’s gate, she stopped. The weeds at the border tickled her ankles and she stooped to pluck a dandelion that had gone to seed. She blew on it and it scattered in a dozen different directions, gently, first up, and then a slow decline until, like sleepy bugs, they met the ground and snuggled in. It was thicker there, by the barn, everything was: the air, the ground, even the darkness—except for that one point of warm glow tucked safely inside, hoarded, held.
Ruth gathered herself up and under the wooden fence, not quite on all fours, not that she would have objected, but she ducked beneath and felt a shiver as she made it to the other side of the fence in the upright position. It wasn’t exactly as if she had traversed worlds, but the quality of the existence in this nocturnal place shifted. In addition to the soundlessness, the night moved. However briefly, it seemed to flutter, to ripple as a stone thrown upon pond would do to water—a quick circular pulse that she had to blink to believe. Just as fast, it was gone, leaving her to doubt her own perception.
I am here were the first words that came to Ruth’s mind, but where here was, was still a mystery. It was the barn, obviously, but standing there looking at it, it somehow seemed like more. She felt small next to it, as if it could open up its doors and swallow her whole and she would be nothing more to it than a tender morsel. She wondered if that was what happened here at night: that some nigger magic made it so that all things came to life, that everything was given a fist to shake, a heart to beat, and a mouth to speak—and, in the dark, they could play out the forbidden things that light couldn’t bear. Niggers could see in the dark, you know. They, who sprouted out of it, direct offspring, wearing it on their faces without shame. How could they not be ashamed, not even in daylight? This was the reason they had to be whipped sometimes. Not out of malice or sadism, though both of those had their piece. But to remind them of the disgrace they wore like garments and how no pride should come from it.
The ground was softer here. She realized too late why. The horse shit caked her heel and she hopped on one leg until she reached a patch of dewy grass and rubbed her foot on it until the smear was gone. It, too, was living and seemed to laugh as she scraped it from her, danced on the pointy edges of grass before sliding down, playful as a child, into the soil, and gallivanting off to some place too dark to see.
Ruth then came upon the barn doors—the lips—which were ajar like an impatient lover or a distasteful hunger, and the glowing was in there. All she saw was the small radiance that had contained itself and also become part of the inner landscape. As she inched closer, she saw that dim shadows had also made themselves a part of the quiet festival hidden in plain sight. She touched the door, expecting it to have the moisture of bated breath upon it, but while it was warm, it was also dry.
She cracked it a bit more and was disappointed. The light wasn’t some otherworldly splendor waiting to bestow its grace upon her. No. The light emanated from a simple lamp, which was set between the two barn niggers whom Paul had been hoping to stud with no results; she couldn’t remember their names.
They seemed to be arguing about something, but they spoke in such low tones that it sounded to her like chanting. It was only the animated way in which the eyes widened and then narrowed, how their hands clung to part of their chest and then shot outward to accuse that she was able to discern the disagreement.
She almost felt herself an intruder in a space that could only ever be hers to begin with. That was offensive to her, but with consideration, she pushed open one of the doors. The creak startled all three of them and the light somehow lost its golden arc. She stepped into the hay and ignored the prickling against her soles.
“What is this?” Ruth whispered. She was talking about the place. She looked around at the jumping shadows and thought she might have heard a drumbeat coming from inside the space, in the general direction of where the two niggers had just sat up, turned toward her direction, but refused to look her in the face.
“Evening, Missy Ruth,” one of them said, hands folded in front of him, head bowed. “You all right, ma’am? You need us to fetch something for you?”