The Prophets(83)

When Paul returned to himself and saw Samuel and Isaiah standing, looking wide-eyed at him, like he was the one in danger, he wanted to laugh, but he scowled instead. The mercy in him was walking away, no less stunned by his actions than they were, needing, maybe more than ever before, the bitterness of spirits.

It was the first time in a long time that he had felt anything resembling doubt. Unclear of what his mother appearing on the white bluff had portended or why her calm face belied her frantic manner, he walked away, nevertheless, confident in his stride lest everyone else imagine him unsure, to their own peril.

Why turn back and see those two boys—whom he now knew, in just that short time with them, he had to sell, not because he wouldn’t be able to increase their stock with children from their seed, but because acts of defiance were always, unequivocally, contagious. He told himself that his sadness, which had mysteriously bubbled up out of nowhere and sat heavy in the pit of his chest, rested in the troublesome arrangements that now had to be made on behalf of two insolent niggers, and not in the fact that being in their presence had almost convinced him that they belonged together, leaned up against each other in their confusion.

He had been a disruption, but not the kind he had hoped. He, maybe, strengthened their bond, gave them the sense that together they could make a way out of no way, which was what the nature of their work had been if Paul wanted to be honest with himself. His plans worked too well. It was he who encouraged them to work in tandem, in unison, and they had but followed his instruction. It was his own fault that he neglected to recall how they lacked nuance or the depth of knowledge that allowed for a measured existence. He only had to see it for himself, witness . . .

No! Coming here—to witness what? Niggers behaving as such; low-to-the-ground things, after all, acted lowly—was an error. The whole enterprise had conveyed to them, however slightly, that they were of some value. This was a mistake.

There couldn’t be peace. Paul couldn’t let there be. There was something in his center, a jagged thing, that stuck him at the very thought. He would never admit to this, but there was something wild coating him, not so much an armor as a balm. And it drove him frantically toward his home. His steps, however, were unsure, the ground wavy. He felt a heaviness of limbs that made him stumble. The Bible, wet with his perspiration, slipped from his grasp. His knees hit the dirt, and before all things darkened, he saw Timothy sprint toward him.

What was he doing on the ground? Ah, yes. He must have passed out from the heat. He told himself that it wasn’t his proximity to the glow of either Isaiah or Samuel that had done it. And was there even a glow, or had he imagined it? Slaves sometimes rubbed themselves with oils from vegetation so that the sun would light them up. That had to be it.

The sun was doubly at fault, then. Yes, it was the scorching sun that hit him in the head with its rays, and he just needed the sweetness of well water to bring him back to himself. Paul looked around, weary. Some of the slaves had gathered, surrounding him, crying, asking if he was all right, taking away all of the air he needed to return to power. He shooed them away, told them to git, and rose too quickly to his feet. He took a wobbly first step and fell down to his knees. Timothy helped him stand up again. Paul dusted himself off and took another step. He asked Timothy to pick up his Bible and then slowly and even-keeled, he walked back to the house, Timothy following behind.



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PAUL RODE SILENTLY in the coach later that night, almost obscured by the shadows that came from the cover of trees. Adam drove the horses at a slow, steady pace, their hooves stepping to whatever rhythm he indulged. Paul stared at the back of Adam’s head through the coach opening. He noticed that Adam had begun to lose his hair at the crown. Had he really been born that long ago? Despite impeccable records, Paul began to doubt that he had been employed at this business for so long. But Adam was indisputable evidence.

There was a faint light coming from the town; the glow of lanterns and candles made things seem softer than they actually were and this brought Paul unexpected calm. In this calm, he paid attention to the town in a way he never bothered to before. It was still bustling, even though the shops were closed for a while now. But horses and slaves were still tied to some posts, and night ladies and rugged men with wide-brim hats and holsters, some of which were empty, casually walked the wide dirt road that split downtown in half. They were headed for the one place that had just begun to open up.

The saloon doors swung back and forth and body after body made their way into the space. Smoke and laughter escaped and reached Paul as Adam pulled the coach up to the post outside. Adam jumped down from his seat and tied the reins to the post before quick-stepping over to the coach to open the door for Paul. Paul stepped down slowly. He tugged on his collar and pulled down the brim of his hat so that his nose and mouth could be readily seen, but one had to do a bit of work to make eye contact.

“Mind the coach,” he said to Adam. “And you have your papers.”

“Yessuh,” Adam said as he nodded his head and then let his chin rest on his chest.

Paul passed a few fellows saddling up horses, friends of James, who were all cheerful enough.

“Mr. Halifax,” they said.

Paul turned to acknowledge them but made no other overture. The men read this as disrespect. But since they weren’t courageous enough to confront Paul directly about their grievance, they turned, instead, to Adam.