John Wray: Canaan's Tongue

The house was in fact a plain buck-board hotel, unpainted and porchless, with a bar of sorts giving out onto the street. I saw him at once behind an unmade table in the corner, stockinged feet stretched lazily toward the fire. I mistook him, in the gloom, for the bar-boy—; as I passed him, however, he turned to face the fire and the room was suddenly flooded in a cold, pale light.

“Preacher—?” I mumbled.

He gave no reply. The bar was empty save for the Redeemer, the bar-keeper, and myself. The object of my fascination was so fascinated, in turn, by our host’s least interaction with the bottles, steins, and barrel-heads of his trade that for a good stretch of time he took no notice of me at all. The table in front of him was not so bare as I’d supposed—: three wooden cups were set diagonally across it. Every so often he’d select one of the cups, seemingly at random, and raise it dreamily to his lips. When at last he marked my stare, the eyes he turned on me were the same two glittering poke-holes I remembered from the revival tent, his face the same blend of austerity and malice. There was no mistaking the Redeemer. It spite of this, it came as a surprise when he opened his mouth and, seemingly without moving his lips, said deliberately and slowly—:

“What are you gawking at, google-eye? Never seen a child of six sucking on a dram?”

The bar-keeper snorted belligerently. I mumbled something unintelligible, skittish as a fawn under the Redeemer’s sudden scrutiny. I’d never felt a thing to match it—: a cold, ill-meaning, stone-faced glare, but far from an indifferent one— passionately interested, in fact, with a school-boy’s curiosity suffusing his yellow, puff-cheeked school-boy’s face. Returning his look, I was struck by a vision of myself laid out naked on a pallet, my hands bound or pinned behind me, in mute anticipation of a surgery performed with the dullest possible tools. The effect of this waking dream, which fled as suddenly as it came, was terrifying beyond words.

The Redeemer registered it all without surprise.

“Struck dumb? Don’t fret, google-eye—; you’re not the first. I’m a curious-looking whoreson, heaven knows.”

“I’ve seen you before,” I said at last.

For an instant this seemed to discomfit him. “Is that so?” he said, glancing toward the bar-keeper. “Whereabouts?”

“At Lafitte’s Chute. I saw you preach.”

At first he seemed not to have understood me—; then, very gradually, a smile gathered at his mouth-corners.

“Lafitte’s Chute, you say?” His voice had a new quality to it now, one of sly bravado. “Tell us about it, pilgrim. Did you care much for our sermon?”

I broke with his look, struggling to compose a suitable reply. Already I was coming under his influence. “I liked your sermon well enough,” I said, venturing an ironic smile. “But then, I didn’t come on horse-back.”

“What?” said the Redeemer. His face was blank as milk.

“I reckon it served its purpose.”

His expression grew slightly pinched. “Ah! And what purpose was that, by your reckoning?”

My smile began to wilt. “I reckon, sir, that those horses—”

“Now look here, you cripple-faced river muck,” the Redeemer bellowed, slamming down his cup like a gavel. “Did you once look me in the face when I was on that pulpit?”

“I looked—; yes,” I managed to reply.

“You looked ! Well, then! Didn’t you see me?” He was standing up now on the ricketing bench, swaying from side to side like a squirrel on its hind-quarters. “Didn’t you see me weep?”

The bench teetered frantically under his weight—: he was obliged to flutter his arms wildly to keep from falling over. He looked for all the world on the verge of weeping now. I kept my eyes fixed on the bench. It looked to have been pilfered from a school-house, or possibly even from a church.

“I saw you make your introductions to that poor spinster,” I said, mustering my last courage.

“I’ll tell you once, and once only, google-eye,” the Redeemer said, sitting reluctantly back down. “I meant every word I preached at Lafitte’s Chute.”

“To be honest, sir, I wouldn’t care a damn—”

“I’ll thank you not to use curse-words in my presence!” he shrieked at the top of his voice, his face going purple and white by turns.

This last utterance so bewildered me that I was unable to make any reply to it at all.

“Who was this spinster, then?” the bar-keeper called over after a time. Though still a young man, as far as I could judge, his face was creased like the skin of an old potato. He moved stiffly and drunkenly. “Put the fear of Guh! — Guh! — God into her, did you, Reverend?”

The Redeemer laughed. “I made the Word flesh for her passingly, Kennedy—; that’s all it was.” He turned to me and winked. “What’s your drink, pilgrim?”

“Rye,” I said cautiously, expecting some new paroxysm. But the Redeemer simply kicked a stool toward me. I sat down on it gingerly.

“Where do you hail from?” he asked, pushing a pint-flask across the table.

“Kansas,” I answered. In his last question I’d again heard the patois of the river-flats. I poured myself a middling swallow. “Yourself, sir? I’d guess from your accent—”

“Kansas!” he crowed. “Well, I’ll be a bare-assed injun! I’d have taken you for one of our own, God’s truth!”

For some reason I blushed at this. “I’ve been on the river for quite some time, Mr.—”

“How old are you, Kansas?”

“Twenty-five.”

He nodded. “And what was your father, in the territories?”

“A distributor of the Holy Writ.” I stared down into my cup. “Not unlike yourself.”

“Ha! Of a different caliber altogether, by your way of talking, sir.” He grinned. “Quite a thing, in these parts, to come across a river-rat that talks like a king’s bishop. Eh, Kennedy?”

The bar-keeper waved a hand, whether in agreement or indifference I could not have said. The Redeemer’s eyes bored into me as before. I felt sullen and restless under their attention, like a cow in need of milking—; there was a quality to the Redeemer’s interest, however, that was more flattering than any compliment could have been. Question followed question in a fevered rush. He was not simply curious about my life—; he was intoxicated by its most trifling detail. As terrifying as his interest was, it was as undeniable as the packed-earth floor beneath us. My loneliness — the steady companion of my last years — cooked away, as we spoke, like hot oil on a skillet. I’d not have got up from that table for my weight in Spanish ivory.

“Your father, Kansas,” the Redeemer said, raising his cup to his lips. “What might have been his church?”

I’d not spoken of my father since the night I’d left his house. “Methodist,” I said.

“Meth-o-dist,” he echoed, still holding the cup suspended. “What rank?”

I hesitated a moment. “Prelate.”

The Redeemer sat forward and whistled. “A prelate ! Tidy house and garden attached to that, if I’m not mistaken.” He regarded me narrowly. “Am I mistaken?”

“You are not.”

He smiled at me. “Not much of a talker, are you, Kansas.”

I shook my head, trying not to redden.

“I assume that’s your church, then? Methodist?”

I’d been expecting this question — been looking forward to it, in fact — and drew myself up with my best attempt at dignity. “I belong to no church, sir. I am a student of Spinoza and Descartes.”

To my chagrin this entertained him mightily. “A rationalist ! Well, I’ll be dipped in butter!” He studied me even more intently than before—: some new thought seemed to have crept into his mind. “A firm believer in God-in-man, then, I suppose?”