James Marlon - John Crow's Devil

He motioned her to be silent. She was accustomed to commands.

“A preacher must never forget the mistake he makes as a man, or he’s goin to start think he is God. You understand, woman?”

“Y-yes.”

“No you do not. God chose not to reveal it you. Only He knows why. And what must happen, must happen. What day is today?”

“Thursday.”

“Thursday.”

“Him sleep til 9 o’clock most mornin. What you goin do, kill him? Plead the blood of Jesus? Is demon him have? Me see it one time, you know. Me see the demon attack him in the office and him run me out cause him head take him. You goin drive out the demons? No that you did try when you and him catch up in church? Him did tell me to tell people say you kill him and him come back to life.”

“So why do it when you know better?”

“I … I don’t know. I just did want one man … just one man, one time to … You goin try drive out the evil spirit again?”

“Lucas York doesn’t have any demon, woman,” he said, closing the door behind her. “He has syphilis.”

The clock above the dining table struck half past 6. Outside, the trees, grass, and dirt were all a deep morning yellow. The road was silent, exhausted from all-night service. Hector did not move with joy. That was gone; all that was left was purpose. As he passed the Widow, his hand grazed her shoulder and his purpose was forgotten. She was still asleep. He knelt down in front of her as Lucinda fidgeted. Her snore had petered out to the heavy inhale and exhale of an inflamed sinus. He touched her face and her breathing fell quiet. The house was still save for the shuffle of Lucinda’s feet. He looked at the Widow as if he saw her for the first time. Sleep softened wrinkles that had come to her face too early. Hector brushed away hair that had stuck to the sweat on her forehead and moved to touch her lips, but stopped. He took her left hand that had fallen away and placed it in her lap. She shifted slightly, but he was already out the door.

“Lawd a massy, wait no, you walk too fast!”

“Too fast for who?”

“Too fast fi me poor corn toe. You think you can heal me too?”

He did not answer.

Outside, the sky was clear. The Widow’s house was at the corner of Brillo and Hanover roads. The church was at the foot of Hanover Road, not much of a journey. Yet he had barely gone ten paces when he saw Mrs. Fracas across the road as if she never left or came. A couple yards down was Mrs. Smithfield, and nearer to him, close enough to hear his breathing, was Brother Jakes. The Pastor wondered if he was blind, for he had not seen anyone before. Along the strip of road they stood and more were coming. Men, women, and children. Fear was not of the Lord, but terror vanquished him. In his mind went off a million panics. Two more of The Five were on the other side of the road, but they began walking as he passed them, their gait matching his. They stopped when he stopped and strode when he strode.

“Lucinda, you …” He turned around. She had not gone further than the Widow’s gate. Behind him were three of The Five, which now included Clarence, who had replaced Brother Vixton. The other two crossed the road, coming toward him. The Rum Preacher ran, but his flight was fruitless. Clarence struck him with a rock and he fell. They kicked, stomped, punched, and subdued him. The village looked on, but stayed in place as the screams of the Pastor echoed from fence to fence. Having punched two teeth loose, Brother Jakes was satisfied. The others stepped away as he grabbed the Pastor by one foot and dragged him all the way up to the church.

Lucinda had been to the Majestic Cinema only once, when she was twelve. This secret she shared with a dead road, away from the busy street, that took her there and back hidden in a thatch of lusty green leaves. Lucinda arrived late and hid at the back of the cinema so that nobody could see her. Because of this she never knew what the name of the film was, but she remembered the man — a white man with slicked black hair, a mustache, and big ears — as he grabbed the woman who seemed to resist and comply, and carried her up a flight of steps so high they seemed to lead to Heaven. She knew what they went upstairs to do. Country girls had little time for sentimentality, that was the province of white women. She knew that the stairway led to what her mother did for seven shillings and a pence, but even her mother wanted, even once, for a man to carry her. It angered Lucinda that her mother might have shared the same want and the same loss. But she was not her mother, she told herself for the thousandth time. Apostle York was hers. He would grab her by the waist and tell her an embarrassing childhood secret, and it would be strange and funny, and she would laugh her little girl’s laugh, and he would kiss her the way men kiss women, and fuck her, and say words like fuck in a breathy whisper, for she was his Mary and his whore. And he would be her calm and her storm, and in this new wind, she and the Apostle would be gone. Soon.

Soon was today. The day she turned the Rum Preacher over to The Five and still had time to make the Apostle a special breakfast. Even through a swollen eye she could see there was promise to the morning. The kitchen was part of the church, separate from the Apostle’s quarters. She began cooking, forgetting dumplings for johnnycakes, calalloo for bacon, ackee for eggs — whatever smart people, good-blooded people, white people, ate. At the bottom of the pot she saw her reflection and winced. Clarence had beaten her with no regret. The Apostle had the idea. He needed to weed out the evil that lived in the Widow’s house and reach the lost at any cost.

“We must save the lost, Lucinda,” the Apostle had said to her an hour before she took her battered self to the Widow. “We must save the lost, but first we must stop the man who lost them. Are you ready to save the lost at any cost, Lucinda?”

“Yes, Apostle.”

“Good. You’re my hound, Lucinda, and he’s a jinnal, just like a fox. When a fox is hiding in his hole there’s only one thing we can do.”

“Flood the hole, Apostle?”

“Flood the? What? No, no, my simple child, when a fox runs to his hole you have to flush the bastard out. You have to flush him out.”

“How we flush him, Apostle?”

“Not we, you . He has to believe you, Lucinda. Thank the Lord that He has chosen you for this serious, serious task. You are first among women! Thank the Lord that He has predestined you to go into the enemy’s camp. All we have to do know is make him believe you. That old bastard can read faces, Lucinda, we have to make sure that he reads only one thing.”

Then he set Clarence upon her like a dog. She could see his enjoyment; the glimmer of comeuppance in his eye. This was his revenge for the whipping. But the Son had to suffer before he was glorified. So did Job. And Jacob. And Jeremiah and Paul. This was God’s work and He would reward her with love. The Apostle’s love, which would be a reflection of God. York would be her sun and she would be his moon, reflecting his light and blinding those underneath her. But Clarence wore the Apostle’s clothes now. She dismissed such things with logic. After all, how would a empty-pocket bad-breed nayga like Clarence afford good clothes, now that him get promoted? She knew who had the Apostle’s heart. That was why he asked her to make the sacrifice, to go into the Preacher’s camp and lure him out. This was no different from the father asking the son, so that afterward the son would sit at the right hand of the father.

She smiled at having served the Apostle so well. Memory had deceived her before, but this morning Lucinda indulged the past as she broke three eggs in corn oil and sprinkled them with salt and pepper. Nasty nayga bitch, I can smell you fishy from here, a voice said. You think any man would a want you now that you pokie dry up?