Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

They brought the sack forth, untied it, and roughly drew it free, exposing the thief who had been confined inside, now seated upright on the wet ground, short of breath, eyes closed (swollen shut?), nude, his whole body slick as if dipped in some red fluid. Tabbs had seen the thief about, a boy really, a new arrival like himself.

Wire continued looking at the thief. He couldn’t look anywhere else for a long time. Who shall deliver me from this body of death.

Reverend. Sir. If you could—

Time’s getting on, Wire said. He directed his face toward each fisherman in turn before his worried look settled once again on the thief. Gentlemen, I shouldn’t delay you further, but I want to put your minds at ease. (Wire looking from the thief to the fishermen.) Want you to know that I fully understand what you are set on doing. You have the right to protect yourselves. Any man or beast who would rob you of your livelihood, who would snatch food from your mouth or the mouths of those you must feed, that man or beast is doing nothing less than trying to diminish your life, extinguish it little by little. Is this not murder by another name? How can such murder be tolerated? I am impressed. You’re sensitive to have given this so much thought. Not that you require my approval. Certainly not. All will be well with you.

The fishermen looked one to the other, hiding their intimidation in the silence they stood in.

For we know what the Scriptures say. Turn the other cheek and suffer violence to the face, to the flesh and blood. But where does it say we must permit a strike to the stomach? Let him violate you if he must, but hunger you? Starve you? Burn your harvest? Carry off your crops? Poison your wells? I would love nothing better than to drown such a murderer myself, should I possess the authority. So wronged, I would drown my own son, give up my own father. But there is one fact you must consider. (Hear me out.) The flesh of a sinner is the Almighty’s and He can do with it as He pleases. And that life contained within the flesh does not belong to you. Broach no claims on it. Wire raised the index fingers on both hands as if measuring some distance between them, the gesture nothing more perhaps than a strategic pause (space) that afforded him time to observe what the fishermen’s expressions told him, time to register their hesitation and dismay. Protection is the province of man, Justice the province of God. Man has no claims on Justice. Understand that. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I’ve only heard Justice here today.

West started to stammer something, but the words faded in his mouth.

So how can I, a man of God, let you take from Him what is His? Who would be the greater criminal? Who would be the greater thieves? As much as I want to, I cannot.

The fishermen stood there without speaking, listening in what could only be described as attentive reverence.

This man has wronged you and wronged God. So give him his due. (What I can permit.) Let him work a thousand days to pay back what he has stolen from you. Or simply beat him, as you have. Beat him and banish him. Wire let the words stand for all to consider. And here is one more thing you might take into account. Should you decide to give him some of God’s mercy, each of you might be blessed forever.

Were the men nodding? Were they smiling?

Wire took another look at the thief. Spoke to the fishermen while looking at the captive: You have already done enough. You would agree? Yes? Perhaps you haven’t. Be certain. Beat him some more. Yes, beat him some more and be done with it.

The fishermen pummeled, punched, and kicked the thief with little energy or effort. The thief made no attempt to defend himself.

I’m glad to see that you’re such reasonable men. Would it be too much to say that I am proud? Well, I am. Wire extended his hand, summoning each fisherman to come forward, which they did in turn. He spoke each man’s name in a matter-of-fact way then proceeded to reach into his cloth satchel and pull out a scrap of leather verse, which he lifted high into the air above his head, like one feeding fish to a seal. The befuddled fishermen cupped both hands in front of them to receive (catch) the verses. Once the man before him received his verse, Wire stared into his face and recited it word for word in an unmistakably affectionate tone, all present awed by the demonstration, more awed in the repeating. On the face of it, either the performance or the blindly selected verses themselves spoke to the heart of each would-be killer, for one after the other they dropped their heads and seemed to feel real shame.

I’m sorry that I won’t be filling your bellies or your fists today, Wire said. But if you visit the shop tomorrow I will see what I can do. Bring your Scriptures.

A promise he would certainly fulfill, although unclear what these men, accustomed to operating on the sea’s moving surface, would need with any implements of stationary road travel that Wire could provide from King Jesus Carriage Parts, his shop. Unlikely that these men even owned donkeys.

Wire spoke to the thief. Take to your feet.

And the thief did in all of his nakedness. He made no effort to cover himself.

I should strike you too, Wire said. See what I’ve had to do. It’s improper for me to stand here putting questions to these gentlemen with their friends and neighbors looking on.

The thief said that he was sorry, although clearly he was in pain and had difficulty speaking. And he said it again. Pain and all, he appeared happy, a bloody grin, if that’s what it was.

You’re sorry and yet you continue to be irreverent and disrespectful, standing here when you should be on your way.

I’ll be, I wanna be, but I ain’t got a goddamn thing.

What?

Said I ain’t got a goddamn thing. Standing with his hands behind his back as if still fettered, his penis all that was free, on display, black signature of skin and bone.

Is that so? You expect me to reward you, for theft? For murder?

No, suh. Trying to draw a breath. I ain’t asking for no damn reward. I jus need to get on up away from here. Get on up from this grave.

Wire looked at the thief as though he had said something immensely stupid. You’re asking me to help you? He laughed awkwardly. Well, I see you expect me to take care of all of your complaints, a man able of body and mind.

I’d be much obliged to do something for you in return. Much.

Look at you. What can you do for me?

Taking Wire’s answer as a refusal, the thief said nothing at first, then he was in distress, great distress, and insisted he go with Wire, a separate appeal in his expression.

Wire asked him what his name was. He said that he had no name he could give. Speech and body residing in some undefined space between gratitude and grief. The surf breaking behind him, dhows tossing and bobbing, and waves crawling toward shore like an army silent in ambush.

I haven’t much patience. Wire made as though to leave.

You ain’t got to worry bout me none. I swear on a stack. Left hand on Jesus. Right hand on God.

On hearing this, Wire approached the four fishermen. By then the four had boarded their dhow and were ready to set off to sea. Wire asked that they return to shore. (The hold he had over them.) It would be these men who would ferry the thief to the mainland, to the city. Talking quietly among themselves, it took doctor and fishermen almost ten minutes to negotiate a price while the thief waited; someone gave him garments to cover his body; someone gave him a cloth to wipe his face; someone gave him a long draft of water; then he spat out blood. Relieved, he thanked Wire and thanked him again and again and went off with the men in subdued silence.

Wire and Tabbs took lunch at a café, never speaking a word about the event. (It was for Wire to speak first— That’s the way they do things here, why there are no criminals —then Tabbs could respond accordingly.) Later it occurred to Tabbs that Wire was trying to impress on him something of the true nature of his work. He had saved men from murder. He had driven other men to kill. War his to declare, his to stop.