James Marlon - John Crow's Devil

A week later, Lucinda proclaimed his appearance the work of Jesus, but back then she feared the working of another spirit, the one whom preachers called in a hushed voice The Enemy . Back in the church, she clutched herself and whispered an intercessory prayer, dreading yet yearning for the man’s return. Yearning? A long-dead emotion stirred itself, which she rebuked in a flurry of Yes Lords. The church waited. Then he returned, emerging from outside as if the sun had birthed him. He was ruddy and handsome, mixed of black and white, or maybe light Indian or Creole Chinaman. His long, curly hair was unruly from beating Bligh, but Lucinda imagined that it was always that way. She smelt his fire and quickly made for her seat. He saw her as she fled.

“But Lucinda. My sister. Isn’t this what you’ve been praying for? Aren’t your fingers tired from writing? Don’t those knees ache from kneeling, waiting on God?”

He touched her face and whispered, “Didn’t He see you mixing tea til He came?”

Convicted and blessed in one fell swoop, she fell to the ground praying and weeping. The man stepped up to the pulpit and waved away The Five, who had been still up to that point. The congregation felt free as well and raised a rumble of whispers and half-said words. He raised his hand again and the church fell silent, save for Lucinda who praised the Lord for His consuming fire yet wondered how much the man in black knew. She shivered. How could he have heard about the tea? Lucinda brewed hidden weeds whenever she wore her secret skin at night.

“Who knows what just happened here?”

Silence.

“Anybody wants try a guess. No? Speak up, you were all yapping just a minute ago.”

“Consuming fiiiiire.”

“Victory. My Lord has blessed you with victory! Scream it from the highest highs, shout it from the lowest lows, Gibbeah, the Lord has heard your cry. The Lord has seen your suffering. That the body could survive for so long with that abomination as a head is only because of the grace of the One who made you.

“This church is a disgrace, I tell you. Disgrace, and you’re all accountable for it. Did I say all? I stand corrected. The church is half empty. Obviously, the ones with sense are finding God somewhere else. Where did they go? Are they at home? In bed? In somebody else’s bed? Stealing? Sinning? Well speak up, you all had mouth before.

“This is what the body of Christ has come to? Maybe it’s not your fault. Maybe congregations do get the Pastors they deserve. Maybe you and him have a good thing going, eh? He doesn’t try to save you, you don’t try to damn him — oh yes! I know what has been going on here. Things that would make a sodomite blush.

“But God sent me. And the first thing we’re going to do? Clean out this temple.

“Listen to me, Gibbeah. I’ve come to bring back integrity and smash out iniquity, Hallelujah. I’ve come to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. Gibbeah! I’ve come with a sword!”

He grabbed the podium and the congregation watched his face as the same lines that knotted in fury relaxed to warmth.

“When was the last time you saw God? Felt His presence? Heard His voice? When was the last time you entered His gates with thanksgiving and His courts with praise? You didn’t see it, but I see it plainly. The Lord nearly packed his bags to quit this place.

“But God.

“Do you feel the spirit? Can you hear it? It’s here. Revival. New vision. New revelation. I prophesy in His name. Can you feel it, my sister? Is it washing over you, my brother? I feel it. Everybody who is a child of the Lord should be feeling it right now. Right now!

“Yes church, this is a new day. A new era. You know what era means? It means something old gone and something new come. Oh yes.

“My name is York. Anybody knows the hymn, ‘I’m So Glad?’”

He called himself Apostle York. And nothing that had yet invaded Gibbeah — not redifusion radio, Bazooka Joe chewing gum, or condoms — moved with his seismic force. He was a whirlwind. He was a center. Fluttery voices made mention of the Apostle’s looks, so like Tyrone Power in The Mask of Zorro that was still shown at the Majestic, but with a trimmed beard, wet eyes, and unruly black hair, like a coolie. God had sent him to Gibbeah. Jesus looked just like him. This meant he had power to deal with Pastor Bligh as brashly as the Lord dealt with money changers in the Temple. Pastor Bligh, disrobed and disgraced, simply disappeared.

As a Pastor, nobody was sure of Hector Bligh’s authority, but York was an Apostle. Like Peter and Paul, like somebody who knew Jesus. His certificate said so. Lucinda hung the framed paper in the office that she spent two days purging of Hector Bligh. She had helped the Apostle move; her steely resolve withered down to a meek, servile heart. Yet there was not much to move as the Apostle had taken next to nothing for his journey.

In five days, he had already brought a change in Lucinda. She relaxed the shoulders that were always tense, smoothed away the twist in her nose from her permanent frown. But Lucinda was uneasy. He mentioned tea only once but the moment nagged her still. She wondered how much he guessed and how much he knew. God never shared her secrets before.

Change was refiguring Gibbeah. Every village had a rhythm that revealed itself in the pace men walked and women talked. The change alarmed the old folk whose lives had been reduced to watching such things. The village hummed and whistled and whispered and shouted and laughed. Even the unsaved were caught up with meeting him. Even the drunkard men and loose women were curious about this Apostle York, the savior-killer of Holy Sepulchral Full Gospel Church of St. Thomas Apostolic. The man who had beaten and maybe even killed Pastor Bligh, then sent him to Hell. The man who made the Holy Ghost thunder.

Lucinda wiped the church clean of Hector Bligh. Hector Blight , she called him, and spat on the floor. She came with mop, bucket, detergent, and water. She came with a mind bent on riddance and a heart on restoration. Lucinda scrubbed the church clean herself, wiping to the melody of “Closer Than a Brother” riding side-saddle on “Swing Low Sweet Chariot.” This was her work. This was her purpose. God told her to make paths straight and to make the church ready. She wiped the podium, mopped the altar floor, and rubbed the windows to such a sparkly sheen that sunlight slipped through and bounced off wooden benches. The office was next.

Clutter blackened the room. Light blue walls surrendered to the shadows of books, pictures, and maps. She opened the glass window and the dust woke up, swirling around her like demons. She cursed the Rum Preacher, whose smell the room carried, along with liquor and failure. Lucinda threw out every book not marked Bible. Two hours later the clean and spacey room gave her pause. The large mahogany desk reclaimed its splendor, commanding the center of the room. The chair stood waiting behind it. Bibles were returned to clean bookshelves that bracketed the desk on the right and left walls. Lucinda had washed and polished the floor until she could see her raw knuckles in the reflection. Closer than a brother to swing low sweet chariot. She brought in the Apostle’s books, even though not told to do so, and caressed the ones she recognized: an American Bible and a Bible concordance. The rest, books of Maccabees and Wisdom, Notorious Arts and Hermetics, and some with no name, she puzzled over briefly, but stacked them confidently when she came across the name Solomon. “Wisdom is as wisdom does,” she said. The office was ready.

“My word … Look at this! I tell you, Lucinda, you have a gift! A true gift! Lord bless you! I tell you, this place was going to Hell in a hand basket, but God just used His daughter. Yes He did, yes He did.” He touched her forehead and pools of red welled up in her ebony brown cheeks.