Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

And when we spoke out, they tried to remove us from speech and exile us to silence.

The Deacon puts one hand on Drinkwater’s shoulder and exerts downward force until Drinkwater drops into the wet sand, porous beach dented around his knees.

And he has to consider his own weight, all of that sinking softness beneath him, wet and black and full of shapes.

In a barely audible voice Double asks Drinkwater to open his mouth. Drinkwater opens his mouth. (Small teeth.)

O sons of Israel who feed upon suffering and who must quench your thirst in tears, your bondage shall not endure much longer, for there is something in us that cannot be outside us and thus will be after us though indeed it hath no history what it was before us, and cannot tell how it entered into us.

Double’s left hand arrows into the opposing sleeve of his robe then angles free. The glinting object he now clutches in his hand he holds out for all to see, a glass vial filled with red liquid and secured with a bone (ivory?) cap carved in the likeness of a fish. Even from a distance of several feet in the fading light, he can see that the cap is so finely and intricately detailed that one might mistake the cap for an actual fish shrunken into miniature.

Behold. Consecrated blood.

Double unscrews the cap and allows one drop of consecrated blood to spill onto Drinkwater’s tongue then three additional drops to plop onto Drinkwater’s forehead.

Do not mourn. Each of us is a celebrant here. In the times to come we shall know each other by bloodstains.

Double moves on to the next man, who kneels down before the Deacon and opens his mouth without the Deacon having to first instruct him.

The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who in the name of charity and goodwill shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children. And so stand with us, poised at the entrance to our suffering. Leap for our islands, our towns, our cities. Leap for our seaborne ships.

No one comes in, Tabbs says. And you don’t go out.

Yes, suh. The top end of his black boots rise well above his knees, like strange appendages, new growth, the boy’s body rising plant-like out of each leather sleeve. (Boots full of sound. Whenever he walks, his footsteps are hollow in sound as if there are hidden cellars under the floorboards beneath him.) And the shank, a sharp shiny addition to the belt around his hips, with its long wooden handle and equally long blade, also seems too large for this boy.

Do you understand?

Yes, suh.

Tom is beside them before Tabbs notices his presence. I got stories to tell, he says.

The way I feel this morning we might witness a miracle today. Double looks at the Bible on the dais, gets momentarily lost in admiring contemplation of the pages, then turns his gaze back to the congregation. Sermonizing, he keeps one hand on the Good Book. Are you all with me?

Yes!

I thought so.

Excited laughter and exchanges from the congregation.

I’m gon say something that yall don’t want to hear today.

Uh oh.

We are not worthy of this island, Double says. I don’t think yall heard me. I said, we are not worthy of this island.

Silence.

Our work has been slow, but it has been certain and unfailing. And our enemy steps in and puts an end to it. Unworthy I say. Because the enemy told all of us to leave. Did they not? They shot us. They poisoned us. They burned us. They took what rightfully belongs to us. Did they not? And what do we do in return? Nothing.

Double shakes his head.

They drove us out of our homes in the city, not once, but twice. And they will drive us from our homes here, on Edgemere, if we let them. Are we to build homes in the sea? I think not. But we seem willing to simply stand by and let the enemy do to us whatever they desire. Do you mean to tell me that you gon jus let the enemy edge you into the grave?

Once again, Double shakes his head.

Do those words hurt? I hope they do. God’s words should cut deeply. If you ever been cut, you know that you remember the knife forever.

Speak, brother!

If you haven’t been cut, you forget. God’s words should make you worse. Before you get better you have to feel sick. I’m gon make you all feel worse today.

Preach.

Double’s black robe is adorned with two red crosses on the front. A day of red. Red cloth draped across the black wooden Jesus affixed to the crucifix on the stage behind the dais.

You wronged, buked and scorned, outraged, heartbroken, bruised, bleeding, and God-fearing people. Double drew his free hand against his glistening forehead and continued. I love all of the streets of Edgemere, and all of the alleys. Every inch of our island. And every man, woman, and child. Every cow and chicken and donkey. Each of the powers of the soul has a different luminosity here, a different coloring, a different richness, a different profundity, a different clarity and a different mystery from that which it has in other lands. Only upon this soil can our nation exist. His eyes radiating in their intensity some message to supplement his words.

And our enemy is taking it all away. And you gon jus sit by and let them. Why oh why? His face is trapped in a smile so sick-looking that many are embarrassed into looking away.

O God why has Thou cast us off? Remember Thy congregation. Lift up Thy feet unto the perpetual desolations. Thine enemies roar in our midst. They said in their hearts, “Let us destroy them together.” O God, how long shall the adversary reproach? How long?

The words squeeze to a close like a carriage drawing to a creaky stop. Double brings both hands to his throat, with his thumbs pressing into his Adam’s apple. And he begins pushing up on his face at the chin as if he can lift his head from his neck. He falls backward to the floor headfirst, hands still at his throat, and starts thrashing about, arms wailing, face moving in a circle windmill-like. Wire is quickly at his side trying to bring an end to the seizure with a medical hand. But Double’s energy is such that he rolls around in the dirt on the floor, clutching his throat, rolls over and over, one direction and another, until he comes to rest on his left side, kicking his legs like a fallen horse.

He gives up that position and remains flat on his back. Shut eyes, gnashing of teeth. Then his head cranes back, pushing up the temple of his throat, words gurgling there. Soon all twelve deacons surround Double, closing him off from view, Ruggles roaming the periphery trying to keep others away. Give him some air! Step back! Give him some air to breathe. The hum coming from Double’s body gradually approaches understandable sound. Wire and the others continue to minister to him, although Tabbs cannot see their actual movements.

Then the deacons get to their feet one after the next, grouped in two rows like parted water, six deacons here and Wire and the other six deacons there. That is when Tabbs sees a second Double emerge from the right side of the first, one man on the floor become two. Both men sitting up slowly then both getting into a kneeling position before standing fully upright. One Double falls down, two Doubles get up. Two Doubles. Tabbs looks intently, trying to clarify what he sees. His own eyes must express amazement first, denial second, and then acceptance. Two Doubles. They take to the podiums at either end of the stage. Audible expressions of awe and disbelief from the congregation. Indeed, it is Double, same skin, same hair, same teeth, same black robe with two red crosses dirty in the same places. Wire tries to take one Double by the hand, but both Doubles wave him away.

You see. I was slain in the spirit. But I arose. See me now. Double on the left and Double on the right, both speaking at once.