The Prophets(6)

Samuel shook his head. “We ain’t gotta do shit.”

“So you risk whupping, then?”

“You forget? We ain’t even gotta do this much to risk whupping.”

Isaiah folded in on himself at that. “Can’t stand to see you hurt.”

“Maybe you can’t stand to see me free neither?”

“Sam!” Isaiah shook his head and began to walk toward the chicken coop.

“Sorry,” Samuel whispered.

Isaiah didn’t hear him and Samuel was glad. Samuel walked over toward the hogs. He grabbed a pail and then, still watching Isaiah, it crept up behind him. Recollections often came back in pieces like this.

That day—it was night, really, the black sky all but stardust—they were still too young to understand their conditions. They looked up into that sky, through the knothole in the roof wood. A blink was all it was. And exhaustion held them down on a pallet of hay. Dizzy from work that their bodies could barely manage. Earlier, their hands brushed at the river and lingered longer than Samuel expected. A confused look, but then Isaiah smiled and Samuel’s heart didn’t know whether to beat or not, so he got up and started walking back to the barn. Isaiah followed him.

They were in the barn and it was dark. Neither felt like lighting a torch or a lamp so they just pushed out some hay and covered it with the piece-cloth blanket Be Auntie had made them, and then they both lay down on their backs. Samuel exhaled and Isaiah broke the quiet with “Yessuh.” And that hit Samuel’s ear differently then. Not a caress exactly, but still gentle. His creases were moist and he tried to hide them even from himself. It was a reflex. Meanwhile, Isaiah turned on his side to face Samuel and all his soft parts were open and free, tingling without shame. They looked at each other and then they were each other, there, both of them, in the dark.

All it took was a moment, so both of them understood how precious time was. Imagine having as much of it as you wanted. To sing songs. Or to wash in a glittering river beneath a lucid sun, arms open to hold your one, whose breath was now your breath, inhale, exhale, same rhythm, same smile returned. Samuel didn’t know he had the heat until he felt Isaiah’s.

Yes, recollections came in pieces. Depending on what was trying to be recalled, they could come in shambles. Samuel had started slopping the hogs when the pin that had been stabbing at his chest all morning had finally broken through. It had only a little blood on its tip, but the blood was there all the same. Who knew blood could talk? He had heard others speak of blood memory, but that was just images, wasn’t it? Nobody ever said anything about voices. But last night, Isaiah had brought so many of them with them into the barn on the end of his question, a question that had smashed all of their established rules, the ones that they had come up with between them, the ones that so many of their people understood.

Samuel tossed the hogs more food. He ignored the pin sticking out from his chest and the whispering blood, which was now coming forth as a droplet, not unlike rain, carrying within it its own multitude, its own reflections, a world—a whole world!—inside.

He began to feel hot and itchy inside.

You ever wonder where your mam?

Before then he was able to avoid the pinch of such inquiries, lose them in the abundant sorrow that permeated the landscape. No one asked each other about the scars, missing limbs, tremors, or night terrors, and so they could, therefore, be stashed in corners behind sacks, cast in waters, buried underground. But there was Isaiah digging around for shit he had no business digging around for, talking about he “ain’t mean.” Then why did he say? Samuel thought they had a deal: leave the bodies where they fucking lay.

They were in the dark last night, so Isaiah couldn’t see, thankfully, that Samuel shifted on the ground, almost stood up, and announced that he was heading to the river, where he would submerge himself and never resurface. Instead, he sat there, muscles flexing under the strain of grasping for something not there. He blinked and blinked, but it didn’t stop his eyes from burning. What kind of question was this?

He had let out a breath in a huff. Even in the dark, he could feel Isaiah’s calm anticipation, its steady, relentless tugging, coaxing him to open himself up yet again. But had he not opened himself up wide enough? No one else had known what it was like—what it looked like, felt like, tasted like—deep inside of him but Isaiah. What more could he give that wasn’t everything already? He wanted to hit something. Grab an ax and hack at a tree. Or maybe wring a chicken’s neck.

The quiet between them was stinging. Samuel took a deep breath as the shadow of a woman rose in the dark just at his feet. Darker than the dark, she stood naked: breasts hanging, hips wide. She had a face that was somehow familiar, though he had never seen it before. Further, a shadow in the dark made no sense. They were daytime denizens. And yet, there she was: a black that made night jealous with eyes that were, themselves, questions. Could this be his mother, stirred up by Isaiah’s broken pact? Did that mean he was a shadow, too? Suddenly, she pointed at him. Startled, he spoke suddenly.

Maybe. No way to ever know.

Maybe she made Isaiah speak, too?

As the hogs ate, Samuel tried to wipe the blood from the pin and remove it from his chest. He stopped when he heard a noise in the distance. He wasn’t sure if it was the rustling of weeds or a yell. He looked toward the trees and he saw something. It looked like the shadow. It had come back in the morning light as a reminder. Conjured up by an inquiry, it would now roam everywhere he roamed because that is what he had heard mothers were supposed to do: watch every move their child made until such time that the child was no longer a child and it was then the former child’s duty to create life and watch it bloom or watch it wither.