John Wray - Canaan's Tongue

I’m not your mother, the End say, moving off. The shack goes sunnyish again.

Oh! I know that. I know that full and well. You’re just the opposite.

Good-bye, Stuts, says the End. Use your eyes!

What about Ball? says I. I says it quick and tender.

The End stops. What about him?

You don’t need Ball for anything. Give me Ball.

The privy goes dark. Dear Stutter Kennedy, the End says. It warms my heart that you’ve learnt so little from our chats. Bless you, Stuts. Bless your dear pure heart and your tender brain. Virgil Ball, Mr. Kennedy, is the most important of them all. Expect great things from Virgil Ball.

Ball is a mess-maker, says I. That’s all he is. If it weren’t for that bug-eyed donkey-pat I’d have got this house in order long ago.

Praps that’s why, says the End.

I peep through the slats. Praps what’s why?

Praps that’s why I need him.

That riles me. That shambling cunt? That arse-hole-chafer? What the devil do you need him for? I thought Stuts Kennedy was your boy!

You are my boy, the End says. Don’t forget it.

Well then, says I. Give me Virgil. Give me Virgil or the mulatto.

Another dry hiss. And what will you give me, Stutter, in exchange?

I’ll give you killing. That’s what you’re artfer, aren’t it?

The End says nary for a time. The slats go sunnyish again.

Do up your britches, Mr. Kennedy, it says at last. I may have work for you at that.

VIRGIL WANTS TO INTERVIEW PARSON, Delamare says.

“Interview” he calls it, though the idea of sitting that old widow-maker down on the settee and exchanging views doesn’t bear much looking into. D’Ancourt tried that, and got laughed at and hissed over for his pains. I point this out to Virgil.

Virgil answers that D’Ancourt is a dried-up, flatulent old dog-dropping and I can’t rightly disagree. I wouldn’t mind seeing Virgil squirm a little, either. So when we come across Parson on our way down to the river — my first morning back on my two feet — I step aside and let Virgil go to market.

“Benedictions, gentlemen,” Parson says. “Headed down to your daily dunking?”

“Not me,” says Virgil. “I was baptized as a baby.”

Parson gives a sympathetic nod. “That’s prudent. I’ve heard tell that followers of Spinoza simmer in holy water like ducks’ eggs in a skillet.” He smiles at me. “That Mr. Delamare, here, feels no ill effects, is proof of his mental chastity.”

“What’s your opinion on Harvey’s killing?” Virgil says, apropos of nothing. “Might it have been Kennedy?”

“It might have been me, ” Parson says. His snakish spine uncurls till he looks twice the size of us. “I didn’t know you were so interested in fat little Harvey’s passing. Have you slipped into D’Ancourt’s slippers, Mr. Ball?”

“God forbid that,” Virgil mumbles. The lack of concern in Parson’s voice — and the cold, dry appetite behind it — makes Virgil’s head pull back into his collar.

“I haven’t taken the Colonel’s place, Parson,” he says. “Still, I can’t help but be curious—”

“No! You can’t help that, Virgil,” Parson says sweetly. “You’re a man of science, after all. You couldn’t leave a closed box closed if a copper-head was sleeping on top of it. That’s what makes it such a delight to have you about—: the world is forever new to you.”

“I want to know about Canaan’s tongue,” Virgil says.

At the mention of that name every last thing hushes—: the leaves cease their rattling and the birds quiet in their shrubs. Parson looks at Virgil as a sparrow might look at a poppy-seed.

“Ah! There’s quite a lot to tell, on that score. Where should I begin?”

Virgil takes a breath. “You told Kennedy that Harvey was speaking it before he died. And Harvey himself mentions it in his letter.”

Parson looks at me and winks. “That wasn’t a question, Virgil.”

“What is Canaan’s tongue, Parson?” I hear myself asking. My voice is quick and childish.

“Have you soaked up some of Virgil’s curiosity, Mr. Delamare? How creditable!” Parson wets his downy lips. “Canaan’s tongue, dear boy, is the language of the elect. The language out of whose mash all our so-called ‘mysteries’ have been distilled. There are thirty-seven words for ‘satisfaction’ in the tongue, but not a single word for ‘sin.’ ” Parson clucks his tongue at me. “Even dark-skinned men may speak this language, Oliver.” He looks back at Virgil. “Even Mormons may speak it.”

“Who’d have thought Goodman Harvey was so close to heaven,” Virgil says.

Parson’s lips give a twitch. “It is this world I am speaking of, Virgil. Not some fairy kingdom.”

“Then speak English, damn your eyes! Do all of God’s chosen eat permanganate of potassium for breakfast?”

Parson shakes his head. “ English, Virgil, is the entire cause of your confusion. I could explain further about the tongue, but I’d have to use the tongue to do it. And neither of you have the necessary fluency.”

“I’ll find someone to give me lessons,” Virgil says.

“Harvey’s tutor might be free,” Parson answers. “Shall I put in a good word for you?”

Virgil says nothing, breathing in panicked little gasps. Parson watches him serenely. “You’re wondering if I tutored him, of course. A reasonable thing to wonder. I can only say that if I had, things might have turned out differently for that little pot of suet.”

“I’m sure they would have, sir,” I offer.

“Thank you, Oliver.”

Virgil hunches forward, struggling for air.

“Short of breath, Virgil?” says Parson. “A touch of ague, perhaps? A bilious complaint? I might have a bottle of something that can help.”

Virgil says nothing. Parson moves his head from side to side like a clock-weight, studying him. “Any questions, Oliver?” he says out of the corner of his mouth.

“Nothing but, Parson,” I reply.

“I have a question for you, as well.” Parson hums to himself. “Have you ever been to a silent supper?”

A silent supper? I shake my head.

“No?” Parson takes me by the shoulder. “I’ll tell you about it, then. This is how it’s done.”

I shrug his hand away. “What I’d prefer to know, Parson, is—”

Parson presses a loose-skinned finger to my mouth.

“ Listen, Oliver, and attend. Several girls prepare a supper in the dark, doing everything backwards and without speaking a word. When the meal is ready, they put a pan of water and a towel on the door-step, and leave the house-door open to the night. Each girl brings a chair to the table, then stands silently beside the chair and waits.” Parson looks from me to Virgil. “The future husbands of the girls will soon appear, wash themselves in the pan of water, dry themselves with the towel, then sit down in the chairs to eat. When they have finished they will leave the house exactly as they came.” Parson’s gamey old breath wicks along my ear—: “That’s how babies are made, Oliver.”

Virgil shouts a curse. “Who murdered Harvey? Answer me, you damned witch! Do we have to cook a dinner backwards to get an answer out of you?”

Parson pauses a moment, smiling into his collar, then says carefully and crisply, as though reading from a book—:

“While the husbands are eating, they converse with one another. They talk of the things they’ve seen on their way to the house. And if the girls are clever — if the girls have ears to hear — they listen and attend. For the future will bring every last thing their fiancées describe.” Parson takes a step forward and allows his back to settle into its habitual crook. “What language do you think those husbands converse in, gentlemen? Surely you don’t suppose it’s English?”