James Marlon - John Crow's Devil

Friday morning broke through the gray sky. The Rude Boys were already up. They had a big job and big tools to match. The noise they made had the rhythm of industry, the clang, crunch, and smash of purpose. Hammers and pickax clubbed away, setting off shards that ricocheted off the bridge. The Apostle gave them until 1:30.

“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.”