Dark Series, The Color of Seven and The Color of Dusk (Books We Love Special Edition) (18 page)

Cain la
ughed. “Got no idea in hell, ol’
woman.”

“Ain’t seen none to beat you. ‘Cept
me, o’course.” She cackled, the cackle that made his skin prickle.

“Ken you teach me? Wh
u
t you do?”

“Why I wan
t
do dat? So’s you can match power with me?”

“So’s I can help you. Ain’t dat wh
u
t you said? Dat I was
sent? Why come, if you not goan
show me wh
u
t you do?”

Cain didn’t know what the old woman actually did and he didn’t think she did either, but he didn’t doubt whatever it was, it packed a hell of a punch.
When he learned her secrets, he’d be unstoppable.

She sat and cogitated a moment. “I think on
it
,” she finally allowed.

And so Cain entered into an intense study of things best left un
dis
turbed. Three months later, when he judged he
’d learned all she had to teach
,
he strangled her in her sleep and headed out of the bayou. “Don’t never pay
to be too sure of yourself, ol
’ woman,” he muttered. He never looked back.

He was the most dangerous of men, a man of charism
atic power holding secrets he
didn’t understand and certainly didn’t respect
. Not
exactly a charlatan, assuredly not a seer. Only two things mattered to him, his pleasure and his gain. As he moved out of the Louisiana swamps, over and up into the farmlands of middle Mississippi, he conceived his master plan. He stopped
to try it out in
a small township called Tonka Creek.
It worked. Like a charm.

Chapter
Nineteen

Tonka Creek was
too
small
to have any
central system of authority.
It was far enough
away
from the next large town to prevent passers-through from noticing any marked changes in its population.
It was perfect.

Cain’s only formal schooling came from that strange bayou college wherein his wizened, wrinkled professor presided over a class of one, but he was a natural psychologist.
He recognized in religion a formidable tool, a means to ease his way into the fabric of community life gradually, drawing the population into his talons, into his control. By the time he gave his first demonstration of power, real power, his targets were so hypnotized they felt no revulsion for the rituals calling forth
that
power.
By that time,
they
begged for it.

Tonka Creek
was perfect for another reason.
It didn’t have a resident preacher. Among the white population, various townsmen assumed the pulpit made by draping a cloth over the counter of the General Store every Sunday and painted pictures of hell-fire and damnation.

The Negroes convened in different homes each Sabbath, but followed the same practice of rotating ministry. Cain hired himself out to one of the white farmers who was a cut above a sharecropper
and
exchang
ed
his great strength in the fields for his daily keep and a bed in the barn
. In the evenings
,
he
applied himself to gaining the acceptance of the local Negroes.

He attended the black services for several Sundays before he made his first move. Then he volunteered to preach.

He brought the house down. Within a month, he was the exclusive speaker at the black Sunday services
. W
ithin two months, he’d moved those services down to the banks of Tonka Creek.

“God made
dis
world,”
he expounded. “De whole world His house. How much mo’ H
e like d
e’ sound of worship out in H
is biggest house den in four walls of
wood?”

The population consi
dere
d
this
and found it good.

“Every day God’s day,” Cain proclaimed. “Not just Sundays. We labor long durin’ de days, to earn our bread with de sweat of our brows, and dat’s right, dat’s proper, ‘cause man walked out of Eden under his own power, too stupid to pay attention to de words of de Lo
rd, but we got our nights, doan
we? Can’t we give him a night or two to raise our voices in praise down by de beauty of dese woods and creeks he done give us?”

The population consi
dered this
and found it admirable.

“Christ broke bread wid his followers,” Cain preached, “An' shared de wine. We do de same, but we d
oan
do it often ‘nuff. What we got do we not got each other and Christ’s love?”

“Yeah, Lord!” chanted Cain’s congregation. “Praise God!”

They
loved
the wafers Cain provided for the partaking of Christ’s bread. Smoking was a tool of the devil, everybody knew that, but thanks to his deceased professor, Cain knew there was an amazing plant with leaves that could be rolled and smoked or
dried and crumbled into baked goods.

They
became
downright attached to the drinks Cain passed down their ranks, the ones he
dis
tilled from certain mushrooms and growths of wood fungi.
The world expanded in bright and wondrous colors. Occasionally, one of their ranks rose and shouted of great dangers, of huge, segmented worms crawling down trees, rivers rising and swirling with blood, strange beasts standing on their hind legs that tore and ren
d
ered sinners asunder.
The
c
ongregation loved these visions of Armageddon. God would smite the world and only the blessed would be spared.

Cain sat back and smiled. One night he brought two newborn calves to the creek banks. Sheep would have been better, symbolically speaking, but sheep weren’t that common in the flat Mississippi farmlands. He stood at the head of the
c
ongregation, putty in his hands,
already drunk from his
special Communion
. He
shouted for attention.

“Christ say, ‘I be de light of the world, de
blood of de lamb! How we tell Him we understan’ H
im do
an
we drink H
is blood?”
A machete of wicked proportions flashed, slitting
the
calves’ throats. Specially picked acolytes
ca
ught
the bright
ly spurting blood in
waiting vessels and pass
ed
it down the ranks.

Most of the
c
ongregation grabbed the crude goblets passing down the rows and drank with the fervor of new converts. A few of them glanced at
this
new Communion with horror, passing the goblets to their neighbors quickly.
One or two of them even dared to rise and leave. Cain marked these people in his memory.

In the early hours of the morning, fire bloomed in three separate houses. No one ever rose
and
depart
ed
one of Cain’s services again.

The evening gatherings increased in frequency. Cain began to appear barechested, his great shoulders draped with necklaces and amulets of bone.

“I be Cain!” he proclaimed. “’An all us knows de story of Cain, how Cain tilled de earth and made his offerin’ to God! An' God turn his face away
from him
to Abel, de keeper of sheep. He like Abel’s offering, but Cain, de sweat of his brow, it not be good ‘nuff. ‘An when Cain rose up in righteousness and slew Abel, de Lord laid de blame on Cain, never seein’ nor carin’ dat he’d done turned
his
light from him
. He
make his mark on Cain and sent him out to de world, and dat mark, it set Cain and all his peoples apart from de rest of de world. An' dat mark, it be blackness!”

Cain didn’t know if
this
interpretation of the Biblical mark branding Cain was accurate, but since it suited his purposes perfectly, he didn’t care.

“We carry dat mark, and we de ones suffer for it, when all de time, it be God’s fault! God’s I say! What we done to make us de slaves of de white man? You say we ain’t slaves no mo’ but I tell you, we is! Jest’ de same as it wu
s
when we in chains. An' whose fault be dat? Ours? I tell you truly! It be God’s ! De white man’s God, him what done turn his face away from us. But dat do
an
matter no mo! Do
it? I say, do it?
”

“’Do
an
matter!” chanted Cain’s followers. “Do
an
matter no mo’!”

“No! It do
an matter ‘cause dey
be other
g
ods! I say to you,
dere
be other
g
ods, darker and mo’ powerful den any God made in de whit
e man’s image, and dose
g
ods, d
ey b
e de ones whu
t
can
make us strong!”

“Strong!” chanted the crowd, hypnotized by powerful homemade hallucinogens,
drunk on the scent of the blood rising from the slaughtered calves, enthralled by the power of Cain’s gospel.
Their lot in life was preordained, set upon them by a vengeful
g
od who’d looked askance at the offerings made by the original Cain. Nothing they did would ever be good enough for a white man’s
g
od. They won
de
red why they’d never seen that before, why they’d never realized there were other
g
ods, better
g
ods,
g
ods who recognized their worthiness.

“An’ dese
g
ods, what we need to do? What they want? How we show ‘em we worthy o’
de
re
notice?”

“Blood!” chanted the crowd. “De power
be blood!”

“De power be blood!” affirmed Cain. “An’ de power be in us! In each one of us! In de men, when de sight of a woman turn us hard and powerful, when we take a woman and ram our way into her, when we plant our seed! In de women, in
d
ere dark and secret center, dat can drain de strength out of de strongest man and leave him limp as last year’s cornstalk, weak and gaspin’ to catch his breath! In de strength dat make new flesh and blood from man’s power when it meets woman’s! De white man’s
g
od, he say dat power bad when it used without his leave. We gots to hide dat power an’ not never use it without his say so! Do dat be right? Dat de greatest power wh
u
t we has be hid under cover of sheets and blankets? Dat we’s
got to have his permission—I
say his permission! To be men and women like de smallest chil
d
not be allowed to wander from his yard without his mama’s leave?”

“No!” roared the crowd. “Dat not be right! Dat not be right a’tall!”

“Den let’s show de white man’s
g
od our power!” roared Cain, and so they did. The crowd shed their clothes
and
writh
ed and rolled
in frenzied couplings, dizzy from the unexpected freedom of sexual release. The sounds of animal rutting filled the night. No one retained enough clarity of vision to inspect the closest available partner.
B
r
other took sister, father took daughter, best friend took best friend’s wife. Cain stood back. He smiled. It was good. It was very good.

In the next week, Cain moved the saga of Tonka Creek to its ultimate conclusion. He stood before his acolytes, waving his representative figures fashioned from dried corn shucks.

“An’ who
profits from us? From us who wu
z
cast down by de white man’s
g
od to be forever without his favor? To wander de earth with de mark of Cain on our face? I ask you? Who?”

“De white man!” chanted the crowd. “De white man!”

“An’ now, my brothers and sisters, now dat I done showed you de true way, de true light, de true power, de true
g
ods! I say now, what you go
an
do ‘bout it? Is you go
an
stay, livin’ in yo’ shacks and scrounging de’ white man’s field for yo' bread? Is you? I say, is you?”

“No! No mo’! No mo’!”

“An’ how you gone e
scape, my peoples? Does you know?”