James Marlon - John Crow's Devil

“Creation.”

“I said, if you are in him you are a new …”

“NEW CREATION!”

“Hallelujah! Praise God!” He waved his hand and suddenly there was a scuffle and a shout. From behind the church they came. Three of The Five, dressed in black and dragging the Rum Preacher. Bligh tripped. Deacon Pinckney picked up the chain and pulled him through the dirt. The Preacher held onto the chain lest the deacon break his neck. The other three flanked but did not touch him as he rolled and scraped against the gravel and marl. The Preacher mumbled to himself. The children thought he was a mad animal.

The deacon was enjoying this too much. He yanked with force where none was necessary, sometimes facing the crowd and smiling as he did so. Each time the Preacher tried to walk, the deacon would pull, and Bligh would fall, the ground bruising his skin. The white marl made him ghostly. He was a wraith; a trapped night spirit brought out into day. His eyes were red, the only sign that within him ran blood. Deacon Pinckney pulled until he was in the center of the circle. The children gawked, the men and women thought of punishment and stayed fixed on the Apostle.

“Father, we obey Your decree of First Corinthians. Today we expel the man who was once our brother, but is now a vessel of iniquity. And so, Father, we send him back from whence he came. Back to Hell with his father, Satan. Gibbeah makes an atonement in bloo—”

“You … y … can’t … even … say …”

“Oh! Abba babba a maka desh! Oh libreh cassakokah maka desh! Oh consuming fire, lion of the tribe of Judah! Abba Father! Rebethababa Lakosa!”

“Father, forgive him …”

“Back! Back! I bind you in the name of the Morning Star! I bind you! I bind you, Hector Blight! You are a blight on God’s precious fabric, a—”

“Gibbe … him can’t … say … na—”

“A stain on the curtain of Heaven!”

“Jesu …”

Deacon Pinckney struck him with his foot. The Preacher bit his tongue and spat blood.

“No! Don’t look into the eyes of evil! He prowls like a roaring lion looking for souls to devour. Done with the man of darkness. We shall obey the star of the morning!”

“The star of the morning is Lucif—”

“Today is the final victory. Even now God is building His wall and enclosing His Kingdom. Just like Masada! Ayeh babacosa maka desh! From this day forth, Gibbeah shall always be in His presence. Suffer the children first!”

The children knew what to do. They ran quickly, returning when their hands were full. The Apostle raised both hands and Clarence raised both books.

“The scripture—”

“You never touch … scripture in y … life … Solomon fall … your fall …”

“Enough with the Devil talk!” The adults picked up rocks and flung. The children flung as if for sport. Deacon Pinckney flung with the force of a cricketer. The women held nothing back. Those whose hands were empty ran for more. The Preacher had prayed for strength, but he screamed.

“I see … Heaven open,” Bligh said, “I see Heav …”

Rocks punched their way through his flesh. A rain of rocks crushed his face and tore off his jaw. Rocks broke his hand and punctured his back and broke his skull open for pink to run through. Bligh spat his lifeblood out and it spread across the ground like the shadow of wings.

In mere minutes his body was broken and he was dead. The crowd continued until he was almost entombed in rock. The Apostle raised two fingers and they stopped.

“Behold, He cometh with clouds! And every eye shall see Him and they also who pierced Him, and all the kindreds of the Earth shall wail because of Him. Even so, Amen!

“I am the Alpha and the Ome—”

The Apostle was interrupted by the slightest of touches. A splash of white hit his shoulder and flowed down his sleeve. He looked over at the nearly covered body of the Pastor Bligh. A bird had landed on top of the stones. A dirty white bird, a dove. It hopped from stone to stone carelessly.

“I am the Alpha and the Omega! The beg—”

“RAASCLAAT!”

Mrs. Fracas pointed above and there they were. A cloud of doves in a shifty circle of white that eclipsed the sun. The children ran first but too late. In one swoop they dove into the crowd, screeching and ripping hair and flesh with claws and beaks. Brother Jakes, as he pulled two from his chest, left his face unprotected. The last thing he would see were clawed feet coming toward his eyes and the red spurt of his own blood. The birds fluttered and flapped and screamed along with the people’s screams. Mrs. Fracas, her hair knotted in birds, swung her umbrella and struck her own child. The stampede of adults trampled the children not swift enough to run out of the way. And yet more doves came, digging holes in Clarence’s face and tearing wordless pages from the Apostle’s books. They picked and clawed at Mrs. Smithfield’s daughter’s feet and she screamed. As she bent to grab those at her feet a dove landed square in her face, slashing her nose and cheek. Birds killed themselves by crashing into walls and fences, and pushed one of The Five over the edge where the bridge used to be. Deacon Pinckney stumbled and landed head first, snapping his neck. In the grocery there was an explosion followed by the whoomph! of a fire. The doves flew all the way down Brillo Road, chasing the village and ripping the skin of those who fell. They flew through doors that failed to close in time and chased children into small closets. Lucinda, watching the dust below, did not see the horde of birds before they burst through her window, shattering the glass. She screamed and swung, but they dug into her flesh with tiny, sharp beaks that tore her clothes. A dove hopped on her back and scratched through her cuts. She ran around the room as the dove’s wings flapped from her back. Outside, they knocked over stands and carts and flew into glass windows breaking their necks.

Then the doves flew away.

In the center where the stoning took place, rocks were scattered in every direction, but the Pastor’s body was gone. People shuddered in their homes. They had not seen the bridge fall, but reeled under the weight of loneliness.

The Apostle had no bruise or scrape. Nobody had seen him flee. He was in front of the Widow Greenfield’s house as the sun began to fall. He stood for several minutes before making the first step. Though his legs rose and fell with movement, his feet never touched the ground until his shoe tapped the Widow’s doorstep.

The door was open. The smell of burnt meat flew at him. Her table was set for two and from the bathroom came the steady patter of the shower. In the bedroom was her dress, pressed and laid out on the bed. The Widow was gone. The Apostle smiled to himself and left, but as he passed the table, what he saw crippled his spirit. A photograph, faded to sepia but still appalling in its detail. A boy of eleven, unwise to the world, yet deep in the knowledge of his sex. A boy who posed like a girl and received Aloysius Garvey and his fat preacher friend like a whore. A brown boy with wet, unruly black hair that glimmered like a thousand tiny eyes. The Apostle was racked with shudders. He could neither cry nor scream. Lucas, said a voice. The Apostle’s lips formed the shape of the word “Uncle,” but this he could not say. Hopelessness overcame him, but rage as well. He slammed his fist on the table, breaking it in two. Outside, the sky gathered clouds through which the dying sun shot the redness of October. Rain would fall soon.

Sunlight twisted and danced through leaves to hit the ground in bold yellow strokes. The trees were greener than anyone had ever seen them. There was no movement, only light. Three rainy months had passed since Gibbeah burnt their fallen brothers, sisters, sons, and daughters, and life was a blessing. This was the prophecy. God had not left nor forsaken them, for they had food and they had fellowship.