John Wray - Canaan's Tongue

Just you answer me this, says I, before you do me under. Answer me this. Why is that niggra such a bother to my mind?

We are each of us someone’s nigger, Stuts. Didn’t your mother tell you?

Each of us a niggra, says I. Each of us—?

The End plucks at a piece of grass.

That’s it, then? That’s all? You sound like bleeding Asa Trist!

The End shakes its head. A little something to remind you of your place, Mr. Kennedy. That’s all.

I curse and spit. What place is that, pray to tell us? Hey?

The End gives a curtsy. The next in line.

VIRGIL COME UP ON ME, Dodds says. Seeking to lay a penance on me.

In broad day-time, while I clambring up the hill with this blankety-blank bucket. Looking at me like he never did make my right features out before. He come up on me all in a sudden and stop me in my tracks and in a voice fit to bring down the Union cannon holler out—

Dodds! I’m wise to your racket after all this time. You and I are going to revisit the scene of our finest hour.

I stand up straight as a picket. Don’t follow you, sackly, Mr. Virgil.

That’s right — I’m going to follow you, old snake-in-the-weeds. Get shambling.

He clutching a long wedge-tip spade, same spade we use to fill in the privy-hole over the Deemer, in he left hand. In he right hand they a bottle full of lantern-oil. I don’t say nothing past that. I hunch down and make slow as a mule for the Deemer’s hole. I look for Parson or somebody but they ain’t nothing doing at that hour.

You’re looking for someone to get in my way, Virgil say. I’ll confess something to you, Dodds. I’m hoping to see them try.

Can I put the bucket down, I say.

You’d best get moving, you son-of-a-bitch, or you’ll be wearing that god-damned bucket for a girdle.

This a error of judgment, I say.

Virgil laugh. One more won’t make much difference.

We come to the old privy-hole. Filled in now. Tobacky-house twixt us and the rest the property, woods all behind. Patch show dark on the ground where we put the Deemer under. Part of it glitter against the rest and I pick up a sly old chip of mirror.

Sloppy, Virgil mutter. We were sloppy.

It were dark, I say, watching he hand fingering that spade. I suppose we done it good enough.

I suppose otherwise, he say, chucking the spade down. Get to work.

I look at the spade. This a grave error of judgment, I say. This won’t bring no good but evil.

As if you knew the difference, Virgil say. He face gone flat and white and if I didn’t know he knew the game before, I know it now. The words get themselves upright, slow and easy, and line up in a row—:

Virgil — knows — the — game.

But that ain’t gone help him much at all.

Dig! Virgil holler.

I take the spade and get cutting. The ground good and mealy, praise Jesus. It ain’t but a quarter-hour’s work. First they water in the hole, then clay.

We sure didn’t plant him deep, Virgil mumble.

Another cut and I catch a scrap of cotton.

That’s enough, Virgil say. Scrape the clay off of him.

The carcass kept up pretty well, account the clay. First I think it withered some, it so frail and childish—; but that just the measure of the Deemer.

Pull him loose, Virgil say. Put the spade by, Doddsbody. Use your hands now. Get hold of him.

No heavenish way C. B. Dodds gone touch that item.

Virgil give a sigh. You’re just not afraid of me, are you, Charlie.

I drop the spade. You less to me, sir, than a rarebit of the field.

Step aside, then. Will you step aside?

I do.

He snatch the spade up and bring it down again quick. Worrying the Deemer into bits. The sound of it like a butcher working on a chop.

What you aim to fix that way, little rarebit? I say.

Virgil give a laugh. Fix? he say, and give a laugh again. I’m long past fixing things.

You dug up a heap of dead troubles. That’s all you done today.

Virgil don’t answer, just hackety-hackety with the spade.

I’d love to know what Parson’s promised you, Dodds. If I were you I’d be gone away long since. Gone for good across the river.

Why you still here then, Virgil? They the river yonder.

He stop and smile. You know full well.

She not the cause of nothing. You want a old nigger tell you why?

He give a laugh. Yes, Dodds. Tell me why. I’d be beholden.

Nobody ever leave the Trade. Not ever.

I reckon I might be the first, he say. He hush a spell. I’d like to see outside of it one day.

They ain’t no outside! We floating in it, all of us. Like fishes in a tub.

Yes, that’s the gospel, Virgil say, poking at the Deemer. The gospel according to Thaddeus. We all know he was his own archbishop.

Trade eat archbishops for supper, I say.

And archbishops eat bankers, he say. And bankers eat politicians. And politicians—

Ain’t no man, woman, nor child never left the Trade. Never, Virgil. Not a one.

Let’s send this child ahead of us, then, Virgil say, pouring lantern-oil top the pieces. On a voyage of discovery.

I don’t say nothing then.

I wish you a safe and speedy transit to the bottom of the Pit, Virgil hisper. Then he let a lit match fall.

I SCUFFLE BACK UP TO THE HOUSE. A week ago it were mischief in every room, but now the house right quiet. Delamare laid up with the shivers. Miss Clem hispering through she window at the Lord Christ Jesus. Parson in he attic laying out for Charlie Dodds.

What is it, I say.

Parson sigh. It’s Kennedy.

I know. Kennedy tomorrow.

Kennedy’s done, Parson say. Kennedy’s done already.

Done? I say. How done? Murthured?

Parson set quiet. Done. That’s all.

Put in a hole?

Parson shake he head. We’ll have to do without.

I hush a spell. Put me in, I say. Put me down in place of Kennedy.

He laugh. We still have need of you, Charlie. Kindly remain alive a few more hours.

You swore a oath, I say. My blood go pricklish. You swore!

Parson give a smile. And the Redeemer will make good on that promise, Charlie, when he comes.

When he comes hell, I say. We short two holes. He gone skip two steps when he come down?

He’s skipped two steps before.

Before? I holler. Before when ?

He hand come over my mouth like nothing. Do you fancy this is his first transfer, nigger? Were you not listening when I explained to you the fruitings and the harvestings of the Trade?

Just tell me who come next, I mumble. Tell me who.

Next you take something to the prisoner. Keep his body working.

What you mean, something? Water?

Yes. Water, Parson say, like it he don’t care if it be fire.

An idea come to me then. We could use him, I say. That Foster. To fill the next hole up.

Parson make a cluck. No, Dodds. The prisoner is set aside.

What for?

He cluck again. A lower purpose.

I FETCH AJAR AND HOBBY-NOB IT DOWN. The cellar door wide open. They the prisoner, deathly quiet. Water! I say. Like talking at a deaf. Mouth hung open, tongue stuck out, lips gone dry and cracklish. I dip two fingers and rub them on he lips. I set the jar down in the dirt. I fixing to go when he hand come up back of my poor bald head.

Dear Lord! he hisper.

I brung water, I say. On the floor, Foster. Drink it.

He hand on my neck. What are you, sir? A slave?

That’s right, I say. But I be mancipated soon.

Soon? he say.

Yes sir. My marse coming down. Then I be put to rights.

Now he hand on my throat. Where is he? Up those stairs?

Who? I say. Parson?

It so fierce on me now I can’t catch my air. Where is he? Where is he? Where is he?