James Marlon - John Crow's Devil

“Oh Lord! Oh Heavenly Father! King of Kings and Lord of Lords! Save us for we are wretches, dear Lord! Of which I am the worst! Redeem us, mighty one! We were blind but now we see! Oh precious Lord!”

“Consuming fiiiiiiiiiiiire! Consuming fiiiiiiiiiiiiire!”

“Hallelujah!”

“Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord!”

“Jesus!” came from a woman at the back. Before she sat down, a cough arose that would not go away. She patted her chest, but the cough harassed her throat. She doubled over.

“Lift up this congregation Lord, as we give you the highest praise! And the church shall say …”

“Amen.”

“Come church, what kind of fenke-fenke Amen that? The Lord wants to smell the sweet fragrance of your praise. AND THE CHURCH SHALL SAY?”

“AMEN!”

The woman was still coughing. One of The Five took her outside, where she vomited. When there was nothing left to vomit she heaved and hacked and stumbled to the ground. The usher helped her up and she vomited again.

The congregation then sat down and the Apostle stared at them for several minutes, casting a curious eye at some, an indignant eye at others.

“Seems that so many of us are so — what’s the word I’m looking for? — consumed, yes, consumed by holy fire that we just had to come to His house today, Amen? After all, it must be God that we’ve all come to see, eh, Clarence? So many of you looking, nobody really seeing, blind by what binds. I know why some of you are here. I know why most of you are here. You didn’t come for the message, you came for the mess. But you know, praise God, He doesn’t give a damn how you get into His presence, just as long as you get into Him.”

“Hallelujah! Hallelujah!”

“But really now, I want to do something preposterous. Can I do it, church? Can I do it? Is that alright? Yes? Okay, everybody who wasn’t in church last week, please stand up.”

One by one they stood up at the back. The drunkards cursed themselves for being opened up to such shame. Even Christians were afraid of being made an example of. Some smiled smiles already weakened by embarrassment, some stared at the ground. Only a few looked at the Apostle, who held the moment for a few seconds. “Praise God. Church, today we’re going to talk about lost sheep.”

The Rum Preacher knew he would not be seen. That took no faith; he knew Gibbeah’s love for spectacle. They were drawn to the Apostle, but he was drawn as well. He went all the way to the old cobblestone track that led up to the church steps, but grew heartsick as soon as he saw the steeple. He could go no farther.

“I tell you, church, it’s up to you to bring every one of these lost sheep back. I can’t do much. I can only minister against the sinister. It’s up to you. Now understand me. I know it’s not your fault why we losing sheep. It’s his fault. You know of who I speak.”

“Preach it, Preacher!”

“A preacher starts a church with ten members and dies with the same damn ten. But I’m not a preacher. I came with a sword. If you’re not serving the Lord, you’re serving the Devil. One or the other, until you die. So when you crawl out of a bed that is not yours, it can only be the Devil’s work that you’re doing. Can I get a witness, Clarence?”

Clarence felt his balls quiver.

“Lost sheep. Some of us don’t want to be found. You ready for this secret, Gibbeah? This will make you tremble. Some of you are in the middle of the flock and still lost.”

The snoring woman was shaken awake. She opened her eyes suddenly, aware of her awkwardness before she saw the pool of her own drool on the floor. A stream of it hung suspended from her bottom lip unawares to her. She collected herself, sat up straight, and opened her Bible like an eager student. When the tail of spit finally fell onto the page, she shut the Bible loudly and wiped her lip, darting glances left and right.

Pastor Bligh retreated to the river. Only she would welcome him now. Only a few days ago he had staggered under guilt and shame, but now he could not escape a feeling of lightness. What was this then, honesty rising up from the torpid waters of truth? Relief? The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. He was set to become Pastor from before his brother’s death, so why should his life be bowed down by it still? Bligh accepted guilt as he did all things; condemned to live his brother’s death over and over. His time and memory was as God’s, without boundary. But why feel torment at being rejected on Earth when rejection was already decreed in Heaven? Maybe Apostle York was blessing and curse. Maybe this was reprieve dressed up in punishment. He let the river’s free flow convince him. He thought of a hundred burdens washing away, the yoke of sinners, the confessions of reckless conscience. Let somebody else worry about mothers sticking blame unto sons and fathers sticking penises into daughters.

Freedom washed over him. He was knee deep in water, splashing, kicking, and twirling, compelled, but not happy. No joy then, but perhaps release. No smile but a gasp. Not a laugh, but a sudden, sharp intake of breath. Bligh removed his pastoral jacket, pulled off his pastoral shirt and undershirt, and stepped out of his pastoral pants and shorts. He closed his eyes and baptized himself.

When Hector rose, the clothes had floated away. Making out the white and blue stripes of his shorts, he chased after them, splashing and stumbling several times. He scraped his toes on harsh rocks. He fell and swallowed cold water but the shorts led him like a piper. Bligh heard a laugh; a demon’s and a brother’s. Look at it, the most wasted ding-a-ling in Christendom. Bligh forgot freedom for shame. The shorts teased him through deep and shallow water, coarse and slippery rocks, weak and mighty currents. They stopped finally on a shelf of grass and mud that shot out from the bank and nearly sealed off the river. Out of breath, he bent down and grabbed them. When he stood up, there in front of him with her arms akimbo and her face scowling was the Widow. He quickly left her face, looking down at the broad shoulders and thick arms that came from years of man labor, the curveless plunge of her black dress that frayed right below her knees.

“Kiss me raas! Look what the man of God come to?”

He let the quiet between them grow thick. In the past, drunkenness would have saved him from embarrassment, but now he had no hope but that she would slip away. And should they pass each other, both would be shrouded in their own tribulations and acknowledge no acquaintance beyond a nod. He remembered who she was. The Widow Greenfield had buried her husband five years before and stopped coming to church since.

“Running bout the river like some mongrel dog with you business hanging all out o door. But then that is nothin new for you. Well, what you have to say for yourself?

“I suppose cock mouth catch cock. Well, me no know what prospect you have down a river so you might as well come with me. Unless God coming back with a three-piece suit.”

She stepped off, not looking to see if he would follow. There was nowhere to go but behind her step. He followed her, but not because another night of mosquitoes was unbearable. And not because he would again be under a roof. He followed her because he was now a man stripped of authority and went where authority told him.

As soon as he saw Brillo Road all sense of relief vanished. The two of them walking the entire length of the street (Widow Greenfield’s house was near the top) created much fuss. One that showed Pastor Bligh what existed beyond shame. As he hobbled dripping in shorts, each step laid bare new humiliation. The defrocked and disgraced Preacher was on the street from which he had been banished with no liquor to diffuse his awareness. The children laughed. The wives whispered. The men turned away. Only Lucinda could make this worse. Or the man in black. Always the man in black. A force, an apparition, never Apostle York. If that were not enough, there he was walking several paces behind the Widow as if he was a dog or a servant. What existed beyond shame? More shame. Disgrace as deep as grief that eroded dignity in ways that were more dreadful than one could imagine. An embarrassment so thick that it disconnected from the subject, mocking him and leaving him even more ashamed. If only the Lord would kill him right now at this very moment. Before Gibbeah would see him drag his feet into Widow Greenfield’s house.