James Marlon - John Crow's Devil

But with the Apostle came Hector’s turn to feel the loss of everything. God’s justice. He loved the Lord but hated Him too. These were the things that must happen, a girl said to him in a dream. But other things stirred in him, things that would never have risen had he not been brought down so low. He never thought much of his life when he had it, but things were different now that he had lost everything. This must be new. Having been driven from the church now made him want the church back. Those whom God loved, God punished, and God had never punished him until now. For thirty years he thought himself no more than a blind spot on God’s backside, dreading yet needing His mighty hand. This was what drove him to drink. How wrong he’d been.

Hector Bligh, as it is in Heaven so it is on Earth, how long must this be about thee?

How long must you be your own God? In happiness and in sadness you are still the Lord of your world. It was never whether you were forgiven. The Moon spins around the Earth, the Earth spins around the Sun, the Sun spins around the center of the Universe. And yet none has more significance than a speck, a dot, an ism, no more, no less. How much less are you to the Universe? And yet look at the image in which you were made. What a piece of work are you! Forgiveness happened on the cross, so what right have you to feel the anguish of the major prophets? You ask for life but my gift to you will be blindness.

Images came with no order or purpose. Children. Darkness. Wings. Black walls that screamed their witness. Crosses swinging from sweaty chests. A withdrawal. The warm spurt of semen. Screams, howls, a wave of purple and white. A face; a brother, a lover, a mirror that falls and shatters. A Judas on the ground, a Jesus swinging from a noose. A little boy bent over. With hair so alive and serpentine locks. Boys blended into girls. Seraphim, cherubim, infant. He knew them. Not their faces, but their sizes, the blackness of their hair and the lightness of their skin. From the dark came a man whose black robes blended with nightfall. He had the height of a man and the face of a child. His robes stirred even though there was no wind. As Bligh rose from the floor, he knew who the man was and why he came.

Apostle York.

Pastor Bligh dressed himself in the suit that the Widow had found down by the river and brought back to white. He opened the door to the scent of eggs and frying bacon.

“Is where you going?”

“To the church. That man who calls himself Apostle.”

“You no think that foolish?”

“God used foolish to confound wise.”

“Don’t preach to me. The egg getting cold.”

“I don’t have time to lose. God goin do a wor—”

“Either way, you have to eat, so God goin just have to damn well wait.”

“But I—”

“Look. Don’t make me get stink with you. Egg and bacon not cheap, so you either eat it or me goin throw hot oil straight on you white suit. Think say people get up early to cook breakfast and …” The rest she said with her back to him, but the Pastor was already struck. It was better to say nothing.

“Eat up. Something tell me say today you goin need to be strong. Real strong.”

Lucinda was early to work. She knew what she wanted to see, yet told herself that she had no such desire. The memory of whipping made her back burn anew, yet the suffering was imaginary and failed to deny or suppress. She looked through the keyhole and saw black. Surely he was already at work. Lucinda chastised herself. What was she there to see anyway, crouched like a nasty child at the door of her Apostle’s office? She looked through the keyhole again and saw black. But then the black moved and her heart jumped. Black became shadow. Shadow became curve, curve became buttock. The buttock went right and disappeared from view. She shifted right and struck her temple on the doorknob. Ignoring the throb of pain, Lucinda stood by the keyhole for several minutes until she resigned herself to disappointment. She rose and walked straight into his chest.

“Oh Jes—”

He grabbed her by the throat, held on firmly but did not squeeze. She recoiled but the move failed in his grip. The Apostle’s eyes opened wide like a child one instant, a judge the next. Lucinda felt her fear threatening to sprinkle down her legs. He held her still by the throat for several seconds and released her, trailing her chin with his fingers. As his index finger touched her lips, he whispered, “Shhhh. Shall we call the Lord’s name in vain? Lucinda, what are you on about?”

“Y … yuh … yuh …”

“Did you drop something?”

“Yuh … yuh … yuh …”

“Or maybe you’re just sleepwalking? Which one is it?”

“Ugh … I … bathroom!”

“Well, dear, don’t let me stop you.”

Lucinda rushed to the bathroom where she willed herself to vomit. Her back’s burn was real.

“Lucinda?”

She jumped. Fear was making her sick. At first he sounded so intimate that she thought he must be inside the room. But the voice came from behind the door.

“Lucinda, are you okay?”

“Y-yes, Past — I mean, Apostle.”

“Feeling sick?”

“NO — Yes. Sick in some part of me body, sah.”

“Oh my, I’m sorry to hear that. But, praise God, better to have a sick body than a sick mind, eh?”

“Yes, Apostle.”

When he walked away, a presence or a memory came to her, she was not sure which. She recalled a little girl’s body exploding and blood scattering across rocks. She recalled a man and a woman mixing sweat under the cover of ackee leaves. She recalled the smell of the pit toilet and the sound of children, six or sixty, laughing. Lucinda grabbed her belly and retched.

Sunday jumped to Sunday fast. But the Rum Preacher was ready. On Wednesday he had run to the peak of the hill with no shoes. His heart pumped hard and burst from the solemn shell of three decades. On Thursday he read the Book of Psalms from beginning to end on his knees without break. On Friday he sat beside Daniel in a pit of lions, and on Saturday Jesus retold the Sermon on the Mount for his ears only. Greater than he had faced less, but the Lord had appointed him. Besides, God said that victory came not by power or might.

The Widow watched all this with cynical bemusement. That was her defense against faith, but still he sparked something in her as well. She did not know what that was, but was sure that she did not want it. The Widow grappled with too many unwelcome things, including more than a little concern for Pastor Hector Bligh.

“After all Him do to you, you still a pray to Him. You is the biggest fool in Gibbeah.”

“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh—”

“Away. God must be a Indian giver.”

He stepped away from her, but she followed. Her tongue was loose.

“Me just want to know why. Tell the Widow woman why you still down on you knee after all this. You think God can help you? God couldn’t even help Him damn self down cross, how Him fi help one loser like you?”

“Is not God do this to me. Is me do this to me!”

“Then God allow it, or Him couldn’t do nothing bout it. Me no understand how you can love anybody with them friggery ways.”

“Because God is God.”

“And shit is shit.”

“Because God is God.”

“I know who your God is. Him right there in me kitchen cupboard, marked 80 proof. God is a Devil.”

“What the Hell you want, woman? You think the Almighty is Father Christmas? God is El Shaddai. Him don’t owe you nothing. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away!”