John Crow's Devil (14 page)
Lucifer was not about to leave Gibbeah without a fight. Even now his servants in darkness were congregating. Multiplying. Possessing. They were ready to celebrate the victory of the Prince of Darkness,
but no!
said the Apostle to a circle that had gathered around the twisted calf. The Five had dragged it to the side of the road only minutes before. “Satan, we’re sending this abomination straight back to the Hell you brought it up from.” The Five sprinkled the calf with kerosene and the Apostle set it ablaze. He prompted those who were on the choir to sing “How Great Thou Art.” The Apostle spread his arms and prayed in tongues, but this was no Abba babba tongues. The fire, larger than expected, shot up through the dusk. The smell of kerosene and cow fat circled the village.
Lucinda followed him back to the church office, but the door was shut in her face. The keyhole was also shut. Leaving, she saw one of his red books left by the window.
“Apostle?”
The book’s pages smelt of old dust. Lucinda suppressed a tiny cough. Inside was his handwriting: dashes, slants, curves, and strikes that sometimes fell off the page. Most she could not make out, but he wrote “secret flight” in bold, block letters.
EAS AND W ST SAME M GICK. SOLANUM S TH KEY. TO SECR T FL G T. I HAVE FOUND THIS T TH ALL O V R THE W LD. TO LEA E PLANE FOR ANOTH IT MUST BE B R E W ED. A BR W OR A TEA FROM TH SOLANU, OTH W SE KNOWN AS BLA CH D CALLALOO.
“Jesus Christ!”
The book slipped from her hands and fell. She bent down to pick it up but his hand got there first.
“Lucinda.” He stared at her for several seconds, his brow knotted in a frown and his lips pressed so firm they disappeared in his beard. “You see anything in here written for you? Do you?” He held it up and looked at her. She looked away. “If you can’t mind your own business …”
“Y-y-yes sah. Yes, Apostle.”
“Good. And another thing.”
“Apostle? Apostle?”
The Apostle winced, sucking air between clenched teeth as he shut his eyes tight. He grabbed his head with both hands and swayed left and right.
“Apostle?”
He spun away from her, staggering and swaying. York still clutched his head with both hands, groaning louder and louder. His legs buckled and his heels stomped hard on the floor. He reached out with his right hand as if to grab something unseen and staggered toward Lucinda’s desk. York groaned, bellowed, and sucked air through gnashed teeth. He lurched into the desk and hit the edge with his knee.
“Goddamn to Hell!”
“Apostle?”
“Go.”
“Apostle, you sickly?”
“GET OUT!”
She left without her handbag. He threw himself into the chair and buried his head on the desk. Had she stayed behind the closed door, Lucinda would have heard what sounded like sobbing.
Outside, the night burnt with cow flesh.
Sometimes Pastor Bligh bolted upright in the bed, cried out, and fell back into sleep. Other times it seemed as if he was beyond sleep, adrift, yet on the bed, with only ragged breathing to signify life. The Widow never slept for long. Hours were spent watching and mapping her fear to the rise and fall of his chest.
At two in the morning she stumbled out of the armchair beside his bed and the cold bowl of soup flew from her hands. Bligh had been yelling for minutes. His eyes were wide open, seeing nothing. The room was blood. Something had gripped him. The Widow thought the Devil. The Rum Preacher pushed himself to the headboard with one hand, blocking his face with the other. He stopped screaming and collapsed. She hated him. Her spirit rose and fell with his and she hated him. Because of Bligh, the Widow’s heart was undoing her. They had struck a deal, heart and mind, and now heart was cheating out. It had begun by tricking her into doing things like adding more sugar to the limeade and looking at old dresses in red, yellow, and blue. She wished she could punch a hole in her chest and yank the frigging thing out. The Widow had grown accustomed to death. The routine of death; the mossy, mothy grayness of it. God had taken away every man who had unfroze her heart.
She left him and went into the living room, making her way through the darkness. Through the window she saw the arched roof of Mr. Garvey’s house move. Not until one of them flapped its wings and flew did she see that there was a multitude of them and they covered his roof, shed, fence, and gate.
John Crows.
Obeah was collective wisdom. The obeah man or woman was a dispenser of oils and spells, but also a collector of secrets. Ever since Clarence got the oil, Mrs. Johnson had to muffle her orgasmic screams with a pillow. Oil was responsible for the pregnancy of at least one of the Purdue sisters despite no known male inseminator. Poor little Elsamire, in a sudden fit of country madness, threw herself off a cliff in Port Antonio, and as her body slammed against the rocks, there was at least one once-jealous girl who knew that oil worked. Obeah was the suspected culprit, but nobody had ever seen it work that way. Nobody had ever seen it work in any way,
for them is all good God-fearing people. And who is you fi ask that deh question? What a piece o cheek!
The Apostle made no mention of the calf or obeah. Rumors popped up at random, like bubbles in a brew. At the grocery, people whispered
Rolling Calf
. Unexplainable things were nothing new to Gibbeah. Only few remembered, and only faintly, that the Apostle’s arrival had gone unexplained as well. All this excitement was too much for Lucinda, who translated it sexually and whipped herself before sleep. In the morning the cow’s ashes were swept away by wind, leaving an almost perfect circle of burnt black.
The Rum Preacher leapt from his bed, his eyes white and infernal. He was screaming again. To the Widow, he seemed to say the same things over and over, but they were not words. They sounded like gargles or names hacked to pieces before they were spat out.
“Lucas! Lucas! Lucas!”
Go down Emmanuel Road
Gal an boy
Fi go broke rock-stone
Go down Emmanuel Road
Gal an boy
Fi go broke rock-stone
Broke them one by one
Gal an boy
Broke them two by two
Gal an boy
Finger mash don’t cry
Gal an boy
Remember a play we deh play
T
he truck did late.
It did always late.
Late to come.
Late to leave.
Late to pick up the mash-up stone.
Late to go from where it come.
Usually is nuff of we that get the little day’s work which go to helping out round the house.
Grandmother did do it, mother do it.
And pickney do it too.
Them lay out the big limestone rock pon the side of the road and we pick up we hammer and commence to broking.
Finga mash, don’t cry. Remember a play we deh play.
We no know what them use the rock for.
Some say to make road. Some say to make rich white woman house. Nobody never ask cause country people take things as them be.
By the next morning the truck come and pick up what we broke up, but leave behind plenty, almost two hill of stone on the two side of Brillo Road near the bridge.
The truck did gone, but the Devil just come.
Yes sah! Word burst like fire pon dry grass say Mrs. Johnson making bun in the oven!
What you saying pon we earshole?
Yes baba! Rumor jump from her yard and race down the street and stop at Mrs. Fracas house, then Mrs. Smithfield house where it pick up two more story, then it hop and skip and jump from one yard to the next, then it race to the grocery shop where it bounce and bounce like American ball. And every time rumor bounce, the story pick up something new.
Well, everybody know say Mr. Johnson lose him nature ever since him come back from the war. Only thing him can do with it is piss.
True-true. Everybody know say that if she breeding, the baby better take after him mother hard or all Hell goin broke lose. If that baby ever look like the man who a dig her, then Clarence in some serious hataclaps. Then when even people who should know better start to say is really so, news bounce back say is not so. Is just sick she sick. Then news start bounce again, saying she kill the baby. Nuff woman, when them see say the blood stop run and them belly get sicky-sicky, start eat whole heap o green paw-paw to stop baby from borning.
That is nothing new, stillborn baby who mad say them never get born haunt plenty woman.
One time rumor say stillborn baby haunt Mrs. Smithfield so much that she have secret funeral round the back of her house and wash out her pokie with goat milk.
Then hi—everybody know say that when poor little Lillamae father mess with her and she start show that she eat green paw-paw. Mrs. Fracas say she see it, or she hear it.
Mrs. Fracas hear and see so much that she don’t know if she see with her nose or hear with her eye. She say that is only when the box under Lillamae bed start stink up the whole house and dog start sleep outside her window that she sneak round the back of the house and bury the baby. A no nothing new.
But things was getting out of hand.
Tell we.
Mr. Johnson tell people that ever since the war when him used to sleep in the trench under gunfire and bomb and them things, no noise can wake him. Now Mr. Johnson is one big man. Bigger than Paul Robeson who sing Old Man River in that Showboat movie that play at the Majestic. Once him gone to sleep, him might as well be dead. But every night you hear whimpering coming from him room like when cat a cry.
Whimpering? Is more than that. Moaning and groaning. And grunting.
And the bedspring creaking fast, then slow, then fast again.
You know what it is and you ears feel wet.
For a man who sleep like him dead, Mr. Johnson up to whole heap of night activity in him bedroom.
Like is Mr. Johnson doin the activity.
But hi! Things that should a gone with night come catch people in the day. Heh-hay!
Now you know say Saturday is one bad day for Mr. Johnson.
Friday night worser.
People say is was a Friday night when him was marching in Normandy that everybody in him regiment get kill except him. Now every time Friday night start turn into Saturday morning him live it all over. Two months before, them see him burst through him house door and drop flat and roll, all the time screaming, “Blue company, out! Blue company, out!” When them finally find him, him already dig this big hole right behind somebody house and curl up in it covering him ears. Since then, him keep him World War to himself. Nobody too sure bout how certain things did happen, but here is the best guess.
Tell we.
Mr. Johnson head take him and him jump out of bed again to go join blue company when a explosion go off and him hit the ground. Him seeing trench instead of floor. Then him start crawl like lizard and go right under the marriage bed. That must be where him find things that never should a lost.
Holy Jesus our Heavenly Father!
Mrs. Smithfield hear the first noise. Mrs. Johnson scream something loud and Mr. Johnson scream back, “Then a who fah? After me no wear white brief.” Then she say she don’t know and him say that him goin kill her today, today, today.
Abba babba sicorsa tatta.
Then she start scream again and things start smash up. She bawling out like is the Devil over there killing her, and everywhere her screaming voice go, him Hellfire voice follow. “So one buddy no good enough, eh? Whoring nayga slut, I goin fix you bloodclaat business!” him say. She scream louder. People start gather outside the gate to watch God judgment. Lucinda race down to the church to call the Apostle. Mrs. Johnson begging somebody, anybody, to come save her because him goin kill her. More people outside the gate. Then we hear something else drop.
Drop?
Drop. Like when you drop meat. Then her door burst open and Mrs. Johnson jump out like she explode from cannon. But she stop when she see everybody outside her gate looking at her. Mrs. Johnson cover her breast with one hand and her pokie with the other. Her brassiere did tear open and her hair did pull up and wild, with some of her roller hanging off her head like Christmas tree. That was all she did wear. Her left eye did swell so big that it close up shut. She didn’t know what to do. She look so fool that she couldn’t even remember to feel shame. Then right in the middle of the quiet everybody hear something click. Mrs. Johnson know what it was right away and run off round the back. The second everybody see him, everybody scatter. Mr. Johnson bus through him door with him eye them black like sin. Him have on him war face. Nobody ever go near Mr. Johnson anytime him head take him, and them don’t go for one reason.
