John Crow's Devil (26 page)

“You know, they used to keep uppity niggers in line with that thing round your neck. What d’you make of that?” said the Apostle as he saw the Pastor. The room was dusky and Bligh’s neck was in shackles, which The Five found in Brother Vixton’s house. A chain went from the ceiling to Bligh’s neck, holding him in place. His hands were tied behind him. “I’m figuring you had some schooling, so I know that you see the irony in this, this being your room.”

“The syphilis rot out your mind.”

“Now there’s a thought. But what do I know about thinking, I have syphilis. How did you know, by the way?”

“You see plenty when you preach in hospital. Lucas.”

The Apostle froze. “A hospital in Kingston? I see.”

“Yes, Kingston. Lucas.”

“Lucas York is dead. I killed him myself.”

“You’re not dead. Just sick.”

“Sick? That’s all? Three months of sparring and all you can call me is sick? Come now, Bligh, only that? That Sunday you knew me more than any man or woman, or God for that matter, and you still don’t know the half. You know I’m not possessed, that was your mistake, and yet spirits are all around me. I can get one to fuck you if you wish. Think of it as a goodbye gift.”

“Keep your damn demon,” Bligh said, looking at his feet.

“Just between you and me, I think they prefer spirits. Well, if you don’t want that kind of spirit, how about the other kind? Can’t you feel it? That whiskey calling you like a girl who never says no?”

“No.”

“Nobody would blame you, Bligh, if you disappeared in a whiskey bottle right now. It might even save you. Should I get some? How about Johnny Walker Red, though you strike me more as a Black? You know, I had this hunch you’d say yes, so look what I brought.”

In the Apostle’s hand was a bottle of whiskey, glimmering with gold.

“Keep your liquor. I have the Holy Spirit.”

“And how is that going for you? Are you quenched? Are you in high spirits? Or would you prefer this one? I can keep a secret.”

“I don’t want it—”

“You don’t want it straight or you don’t want it now?”

“I don’t want it ever.”

“Ever. That’s a mighty long time. Maybe you’ve just forgotten the taste, now that you’re so righteous and all. Poor little whiskey, dying from jealousy. ‘If only he could taste me,’ she said. If only.” The Apostle pulled the cap and held the bottle over Bligh’s head. “‘If only he could taste me,’ she said.” He poured the whiskey over Bligh’s forehead. Hector shut his eyes tight as Johnny Walker ran down his face and wetted his lips.

“Just stick that big tongue out, there’s a good lad,” said the Apostle. “One sip, Bligh. Come now, Bligh, the whiskey’s a-wasting. Bligh? Bliiiiiigh. Look at that now, all done. No more whiskey. You try to give black people things and—”

“God curse you.”

“I think you got the tense wrong. But that’s fine, God curse me? I curse him back.” Apostle York sat down in the room’s one chair which leaned against the doorway.

“The Bible is just a book, Bligh. An incomplete, inconclusive book. Your church calls itself the Church of St. Thomas, and yet your same church forbids the Gospel of St. Thomas. There’s so much, Bligh, so much your ignorant little negro mind can’t comprehend. Like Solomon. I’ve read books of Solomon that you’ve never heard of.”

“This is history class or you just love talk?”

“No, this isn’t history, this is the present. But you’ll soon be—history, that is.”

“Black arts goin kill you.”

“Black arts? Black arts? You mean magic? This isn’t magic, fool. This is the true work of God!”

“It will kill you.”

“It keeping me alive! No doctor could help me. By the time they found out what I was suffering from, I was as good as fucked. But I don’t need no physician, I am the great physician. God. You see God? God is a figment. A level. A process. I followed the same process and I became God.”

“Now I know you mad. Nobody can become God. God was never born and will never die, He is the I am.”

“Lie. Darkness made Him, light shape Him, and people colored up the ugly parts. You, Bligh, you same one; if you close your eyes right now and pray to God, you think of somebody who looks exactly like me. My hair, my beard, my eyes, my skin—”

“Your pox.”

“To Hell with you.”

“Is not me Satan waiting on.”

“How you figure that?”

“You go and sin with your privates and catch a disease and now you blame God. How long since you get it?”

“Get it? You talk as if I had it coming. This was given to me, Bligh. Call it God’s gift. God gave syphilis to me.”

“Blasphemy. God don’t give disease, He is the healer. You telling a lie.”

“I am the way and the truth.”

“The father of lies.”

“Gibbeah would rather have my lies than your truth. Why do they follow me so easily, Bligh? So quick, without question? I give them something God can’t give. Listen, I’m taking this whole village down with me. You should have left when you had the chance. You don’t belong here.”

“Neither do you. These people didn’t do you nothing—”

“You fucking idiot! How far, eh? How far must a knife go in your chest before you realize you’re being fucked with? How do you think I know every name? How do you think I recognize every face? I was here, Hector. I was here even when Uncle Aloysius brought your sorry, drunk arse to Gibbeah. The only reason that man hired you is because you were as blind then as you are now. Not so mad now, eh? This syphilis came from God. From the man of God who preceded you. Aloysius Garvey’s good friend and rape-mate. Is it coming to you now? Why don’t you say his name with me? Yes, Pastor Palmer. I have the scars to prove it, shall I drop my pants and show you?”

“No.”

“Look at that, a Pastor who couldn’t keep his cock in his pants. Sound like anybody you know?”

“God was with you. Even then, God was with you.”

“No. God was with the preacher who was lying in the bed with me. But you know, I’m starting to feel redeemed. Thank you, Bligh, thank you. I think I’m believing this Bible now; that God suffers with me, really, I do. I can just see Him crucified by his own father for kicks. God didn’t help me. He could have given me freedom, but He didn’t. He could have given me joy or peace, but He didn’t. You didn’t even notice me. Not even once. I leave a year after you came and you didn’t even notice.”

The Apostle coughed, blinking his eyes until the wet glimmer of tears was gone.

“But I don’t blame you. I blame God. At the very least, He could have made me not feel the fucking pain, but He didn’t. God left me and forsook me, so I did the same to that son of a bitch. You know what I did? I studied him. I read everything from Apocrypha to Luther to Augustine to Faust. And I read more. And I learned something. God is real, Jehovah is a myth. Jehovah is a thing people invent to excuse horrible shit as if it had some purpose. But there is none, you see, that’s what Satan knew all along. There is no purpose. There’s no meaning, no teaching, no greater good to come out of sucking my fake uncle’s cock. There’s just my mouth and his cock. Nothing else. Like God, God is nothing. I used God’s nothing to become something, and damn if I’m not dragging God to Hell with me.”

“No.”

“Then I started to read people who realized what I did, that God had a limit. Stuff from Solomon. That lying Bible would tell you that Solomon got stupid when he strayed; no, he got even more wise. That’s when he started making sense. He could command angels and demons and gain wisdom that God had been fearing from man ever since Eve bit the apple. Knowledge, Bligh. That’s how you become God. Now angels and demons do my will too.”

“No.”

“Then I came back. You think Uncle was happy to see me? Him and his new batch of boys? You know what he did when we got too strong for him? Send us off to boarding school for more men to fuck with us. But I came back. I came back in the same clothes his preacher friend used to wear. The skinny black fucker thought I came bringing forgiveness, until he saw my sword. Cutlass, actually. Chop his head clean off. Then I chopped off his curse. Then I chopped up every little new demon he was growing in that house. Most of them were still sleeping when I send them to Hell.”

“No.”

“No? Not at all. I belong here, Bligh. I belong with these people. I belong with all these fuckers who suspected or even knew what my uncle was, but let their nigger ways allow it. And those same nigger ways now allowing me.

“I belong here. I drove you out but you wouldn’t leave. Now I can’t do anything for you.”

12:15. Apostle York had said 2:00. He declared it last night. Mrs. Fracas was getting ready. She had not worn the black dress since Lillamae’s funeral. She cursed it for being the most expensive yet least useful dress. But the Lord had taught her that what seems useless may have not yet come into purpose. People were like that too. She looked at herself in the mirror and saw the miraculous slimming powers of pin stripe. God was going to use her as his instrument today.

Deacon Pinckney used his two good eyes to admire himself in his mirror. Tony Curtis had no black so he wore white: his grandfather’s pants and his mother’s blouse.

Clarence’s tie was crooked. From behind and facing the mirror, the Apostle tugged until it was straight. He smoothed out the shoulders of his jacket, then handed him pants to match.

Brother Jakes picked out a black veil for his wife, who had before decided not to go. The swelling around her battered eye signified her change of heart. A long dress made sure that her whipped thighs and bruised hands would be concealed as well. Even the children were dressed and ready.

The Rude Boys were finished. Two o’clock came and passed, so they left the tools and went home to change. The bridge had fallen to a cataclysmic crash, the sound of life coming undone, collapsing and killing other lives underneath. Through a series of night services the Apostle had shown them how it was possible. God’s people only needed God after all. York was serious.

The children were restless. Most were upset enough about wearing Sunday clothes on a Sunday, but this was Friday. Some of the children wondered why they stopped going to the school ten miles down past the valley. Today they were bound in stiff pants and starched shirts and dresses and shoes sent in barrels from
Englan
and
New Yawk
along with wide ties made for adults. The Pastor had told them that they were going to play a new game. And God wanted them looking their best.

Brother Jakes’s oldest son had also decided not to come. His subsequent brutal beating sealed his own prophecy. This was not a day for children to disobey fathers; this was a day to submit to Apostle York as if to God. This was the day that the Lord had made, and this was His work. Clarence dressed the Apostle. He straightened his necktie and wiped away lines of dirt from York’s shoes with his fingers. Clarence then guided the robes over the Apostle’s head gently, so that his hands slipped through the sleeves. The layers of cloth fell around him like a shower. Clarence gave the Apostle his red book and his black book, then he gave him something else.