The Prophets(82)
He observed them out by the barn. Young, fit, black and blue, they moved with an efficiency and expertise of which he didn’t imagine niggers capable. They seemed to have some sort of system, one they devised themselves, which sometimes made it possible for them to accomplish all manner of work in time to go out into the fields and help the other niggers pick the last bit of cotton before quitting time. They would pick almost as much as the others in less than half the time.
The key, it seemed, was in their proximity to each other. They seemed to energize each other, perhaps even inspire each other in a way that not even the couples he didn’t have to force together did. If they were his sons, he would have been proud.
When Paul finally decided to cross the gate with specific intention, it was early morning—so early that the sun had not yet overpowered all else and drenched land and people in hot light. He held a whip in his left hand, let it dangle at his side and its tip drag against the ground. In his right hand, he held the Bible, the same one that civilized Amos. His hat was pulled low, just at the edge of his eyebrows, but the top two buttons of his shirt were undone, enough for his chest hair to protrude. He unhooked the gate and crossed the barrier surrounding the barn. He didn’t bother to close the gate behind him. It hadn’t occurred to him to bring someone with him, James or one of the other dullards, in case the two niggers had become untenable.
The air could choke with either the scent of dandelions or manure, and the two together overwhelmed. Paul wafted through the stench toward the barn where Isaiah and Samuel busied themselves. They came to attention when they saw him. Their heads downward and their bodies erect, they stood close to each other, but they didn’t touch.
Momentarily, Paul felt something like a breeze blow past him, something that tickled the hairs on his chest and forced him to close his eyes. It was something like a caress, unseen and gentle.
“Samuel,” he said softly. “Fetch me a drink of water.” What he really wanted, though, was whiskey.
Paul observed the troubled manner with which Samuel held the ladle, but careful still to ensure no drop might spill. For a moment, Paul believed that it might be fear that guided those actions, but also there was no quiver in his step and his hands didn’t tremble; downward-cast eyes evinced no supplication. Before him stood a creature who, under all the grime and drenched in the smell of grudge work, imagined itself possessing a glimmer of worthiness. This was vanity and it explained so many things.
Paul sat on a bench and motioned for Isaiah and Samuel to stand before him. He opened the Bible, the whip still in his hand.
“There’s trouble here,” he said without lifting his head, flipping through the pages, seeming, occasionally, to have lost his place, before closing the book with a loud thud that startled Isaiah.
“James says that the nature of the nigger is debased, but I imagine that even nature can be changed. I watched my father do it with his own hands. Wrest it and redirect the course of rivers. Bend trees. Put flowers where he wanted them to be. Catch fish and fowl to nourish. Erect his home in the middle of what his work had rightfully claimed. His birthright that God Himself ordained as dominion.”
At that moment, the sun revealed itself and, inch by inch, began to shine down on the standing Isaiah and Samuel, touched their crowns as though they were actually so consecrated, bright in a way that didn’t hinder sight but did make the face pinch just a little. Inside, Paul begged for a stray cloud, something that would dim the glowing and perhaps act as a sure sign that the divine wasn’t singling out the wretched before him for blessing. And then he realized that the light itself was the message, giving him the insight, guiding his wisdom, confirming his authority, God showing him the way with the first thing He had ever created. This wasn’t Isaiah and Samuel being bestowed with some sort of majesty; impossible. Rather, this was merely the dawn. God had finally touched his forehead, too!
He took the ladle from Samuel and sipped, secure in the knowledge he held in both hands. He wasn’t thirsty, but it was necessary for them to see how elementary his power was, that there was no need to raise voices or hands and yet, with only a few words, reality had knelt to his bidding, and so simply, illustrating the only order under which it could function. He smiled.
“Their blood upon them,” Paul said, finally settling on a direct approach. He sighed. “Bleeding is so easy. The body gives up its secrets at the slightest provocation. Man is only separated from the rest of nature by his mind, his ability to know, even if that knowing was born in sin,” he said, taking a deep breath and looking dead into their closed faces. “Fruitful!” he said a little louder than he had intended. “Multiply,” he continued, raising his hand quickly and dropping the ladle, which fell to the ground and landed at Samuel’s feet.
“Pick it up,” Paul said calmly as he balanced the Bible on his lap.
Both of them rushed to do so, banging heads as they stooped. Had they not been standing so close together, Paul thought. The sun shone against the ladle and stung his eyes. He pointed to the ground, gesturing for Isaiah or Samuel to hurry and pick it up. He turned toward the sun’s direction to avoid the reflecting light and was confronted with another.
There, off in the distance, Paul saw her first as a flash, then in full form. Standing, he could be sure, at the edge of the cotton field. Actually, she was a few rows in. The cotton laced her belly like a soft belt and colorful birds flew over her head. Elizabeth held court in the morning, not in the past but here, waving at him feverishly, or was she signaling for him to come closer? Paul stood up. No, Elizabeth was telling him to go. But go where? She stopped waving. Her hands returned to her sides. Paul rubbed his eyes. He looked to the field again. Elizabeth was gone in a blink and took meaning with her.