Ring Shout

by P. Djèlí Clark

  “Klans!” he pants, small chest heaving. “My papa make me run all the way here. Tell you, Klans attacking!”

  “Where?” I ask, pushing forward.

  He takes another gulp of air. “Frenchy’s!”

  Notation 21:

  In This Field We Must Die? Well, that Shout got many meanings. The field where the slaves was forced to toil away they whole lives. Or it’s this world everybody got to leave one day. What else there was to do in that drudgery, working from can’t see morning to can’t see night, but to get to thinking on life, death, and God’s purpose? All them grand thinkers lost to the whip. Gone and took they secrets with ’em to the grave.

  —Interview with Ms. Henrietta Davis, age seventy-two, transliterated from the Gullah by EK

  FIVE

  The old Packard races down Macon’s country roads, engine rattling noisily in the night. Beside me Sadie chewing on tobacco so hard I can hear her teeth snapping. For once I hold back telling her to stop smacking in my ear. She worried I know. We all is.

  Was all confusion when we get the news. Attack shoulda been on us, not Frenchy’s. For a while there was just a mess of arguing and shouting. Sadie the one who finally grabbed her rifle and headed for the door, saying she don’t got time to sit around fussing. Me and Chef joined her, leaving Molly’s people and Emma to guard Nana Jean’s. All our fears get made real when we catch sight of what’s in the distance.

  Frenchy’s on fire, orange flames bright against the night. People run past us on the road, still in their fine clothes. Saturday night the juke joint would be packed. Worst time for this to happen. I search their faces, belly in knots as I look for Michael George. I know better, though. He wouldn’t leave the place he built and set down roots.

  Chef finally has to stop the Packard, unable to drive through the fleeing people. We jump out, pushing through them. Klans, they saying—came in tearing up the place, whipping people. One man show his shirt torn to shreds, his back bloody. Another one wild-eyed, raving about monsters. Ku Kluxes. The sight can come on you like that. When we finally reach Frenchy’s, we can see the mayhem ourselves.

  The juke joint hardly look the same. The whole porch blackened, and flames licking the second floor. People running through the front, stumbling and falling to get out. And right there waiting is a whole mess of Klans. All in white robes, with hoods over their heads so you can only make out eyes. But I can still tell which is Ku Kluxes. And there’s no mistaking the big one at their head, holding up a Bible and shouting.

  Butcher Clyde.

  “Brethren, we must do our best to stamp out the vices in our midst! Fornication! Drinking! Heathen music! It’s left to us to correct the waywardness of these simple minds, as a father must govern over his children and home—delivering stripes onto the wicked so that they might be persuaded to follow a straight path!”

  People fleeing the fire forced to run through the mob, and Klans with whips strike whoever they can. The sound of the lash biting flesh sets my blood boiling. I start forward, but Chef grabs hold of me, pointing at the burning juke joint.

  “There’s people still in there!”

  I look to a window to see the shadows of men and women trapped in the blaze. They run out of sight, and a set of bigger shadows lumber after them. Ku Kluxes!

  Sadie growls, taking off running to the back of the house. Don’t have much choice but to follow. We reach a door to find it braced with a bar—to make folk run through the front. Or burn up inside. Soon as we pull it away, people come flying out, coughing and doubling over. We let them pass, then run in.

  Flames and smoke greet us, but through the haze I spot the first Ku Klux—a full turned demon amid hellfire. It got an arm ready to slash at some people cornered against a wall. I don’t wait to figure out more.

  The sword comes at my call, with the visions. A woman in Saint-Domingue shouting a war song at shaken French troops as she set herself on fire; a man in Cuba applying a balm to another’s cut-open back, singing to soothe his lover’s cries; a mother fleeing through thick Mississippi pines to a contraband camp, humming to quiet her babies. The girl in the dark there too, and I shrug off her fear before it can sink in teeth.

  The sword grows solid in my grip, black smoke becoming metal as I run the blade through the Ku Klux’s back, right where one of its hearts is. Thank goodness for Molly’s dissections. It staggers, falling onto its side, and I drive my sword into its throat. The people I saved stand there bug-eyed. If they ain’t got the sight, they just seen me put several inches of iron through a man’s neck.

  “We try to fight him,” one stutters. “But he strong like … ain’t natural!”

  “Y’all move! Get on out—”

  I don’t finish before something crashes into me. I land on my back and the air rushes out my lungs. When I suck some back in, the smoke sets me to choking. Between tears, I can see a Ku Klux on top of me. Where the blazes this one come from? Its jaws are clamped down and there’s a hot trickle on me. This thing biting my arm off? No, my sword. And the wetness is its saliva. Disgusting.

  With all the strength I can muster, I call on the sword’s power. Those old man-stealing kings and chiefs wail the names of sleeping gods, and the black leaf-blade turns white hot in the Ku Klux’s mouth. It shrieks, scrambling off me and clawing its face, most of which is charred meat now. I move to finish it off, but a bullet takes it in the flank. The cornered people ain’t moved, and now they’re screaming. They scream harder when a second bullet pierces the Ku Klux’s eyes, dropping it dead.

  I look to find Sadie, aiming Winnie right at me. “What—?”

  “Drop down!”

  I got sense enough to go back flat. A bullet zips overhead and there’s another shriek. I whip my head around to see two Ku Kluxes wrapped in fire, charging on all fours from another room. Sadie works that lever and shoots so fast, I barely have time to count before it’s over—one bullet, three, five. Now there’s two more dead Ku Kluxes.

  The cornered people stop screaming. At least two fainted. Maybe the rest gone hoarse. But they ain’t moving neither, just hugging the wall and shaking. Chef appears, coaxing them away. “Help me get these outside!” she shouts between coughs, lifting a limp man. “This whole place going to burn down!”

  I start to grab a woman when a set of screams come. We all look up. The second floor. Michael George?

  “I’ll go!” I say.

  “By yo’self?” Sadie shouts.

  But I’m already moving.

  Running up the stairs feels like I’m heading into the belly of some fire-breathing dragon. It’s hotter here and the smoke almost blinding. I follow the screams down a corridor to where a Ku Klux is throwing itself against a door. On the other side, the screams come every time it hits. I give a shrill whistle, and the monster swings a six-eyed head my way. Roaring, it comes for me, and I run straight for it, dropping to my knees and letting momentum carry me across the floor to slice through its underside. It passes me, stumbles out of its run, and whips back around, slipping and falling forward on its spilled entrails. At the door, the screams come again. I shout at them to open it and have to cuss before they do. Not Michael George. A trembling man and woman, clothes half off. No need to wonder what they was up to.

  “You need to get out!” I tell them.

  We have to clear back the barricade they erected—a bed and chifforobe. Soon as I get them into the hall, they see the dying Ku Klux crawling after me in its mess and start hollering. Rolling my eyes, I reach to put my sword through the monster’s skull. That makes them holler more. I’m telling them to do less crying and more moving when there’s the sound of breaking glass followed by a crash. It comes several more times. Then there’s heavy thudding like galloping and—

  The doors to one of the rooms splinters open to show three Ku Kluxes fighting their way through the narrow space. More doors bust open, and more Ku Kluxes follow. The damn things climbed up the house and are coming through the top windows! The corridor fills wi
th them, in front and behind. I stop counting at eight. The way they all turn my way, eyes glittering, easy to figure out who they here for. I raise my sword and let it sing.

  The next moments are a whirlwind—snapping teeth, claws, and blood, plus two people screaming behind me. It don’t make for pretty fighting. I cut wide arcs, trying best I can to keep the monsters back. But soon as I make space, more crowd in. Can’t keep this up. Between my lungs choking with smoke and the heat of the fire, I’m fading fast. A Ku Klux almost slices me open before I spin to bat it back. I’m starting to wonder if there’s no way out this mess when there’s a shout and the blessed sound of a Winchester loading. Sadie’s at the edge of the stairs, looking like a yella angel in overalls come down to fight in hell. Her face lit fierce by flames as she holds up Winnie like a sword of judgment.

  In a blur she shoots down Ku Kluxes not in front of her but behind me! The shots are straight for the head. Dropping two with one bullet. I never seen anything like it. Before you can even count to four, the path behind me is clear.

  “Go!” she yells.

  I take steps to help her, thinking of the two of us back to back, taking on this whole bunch. But she waves her rifle at me and yells again.

  “Stop being hardheaded just this once! Take them and I’ll follow behind!”

  Right, then. I take hold of the dazed couple, pushing them on. As we run I hear Sadie shouting, “Listen up, all you white niggers! Just you and me and Winnie now!” A set of angry roars answer, and I glance back to see every last Ku Klux surging toward her in a pack of pale skin, venting their rage. In between the smoke I catch Sadie laughing as they come, working the lever of her Winchester and firing like there’s no tomorrow.

  Rifle shots ring in my ears as we reach the back stairway. We run, stumble, almost fall a few times through the thick haze. When we reach the door, we stagger out, gulping night air. I’m bent over hacking my lungs out when Chef runs up. She with a familiar face—Lester. Got a cut on his forehead, but otherwise look well.

  “Michael George!” I cough. “You seen him?”

  A pained look cross his face. “Them Klans take him!”

  I glance up sharp. “How you mean?”

  “People tell me the same,” Chef says. “That the Klans was snatching folk. Maybe a half dozen. Packed them into cars and drove off.”

  I picture Michael George, fighting as they drag him away. But why would they take him or anyone else? Don’t make sense!

  “Sadie,” Lester says, face frantic. “Where’s Sadie?”

  I’m set to tell him she right behind me but when I look back, nobody there. And I realize it been a while since I heard a rifle shot. My eyes go to the burning juke joint and my stomach drops. I take off in a run, ignoring Chef’s calls and, taking one big swallow of good air, dive back into the smoke and fire.

  Can barely make out anything now, and I trip and bounce off a wall before finding the back stairs. The smoke got my eyes streaming tears and my lungs burning. But I can’t stop. When I reach the top and turn into the corridor I stare at the scene before me.

  There’s dead Ku Kluxes everywhere. Most turning to ash, but the fire catches some and the stink of their unnatural flesh scalds my nostrils. I cover my mouth and nose with my cap, blocking out the smoke and stench best I can, clambering over bodies. Must be about a dozen lining the floor—but no Sadie. I shout, not getting an answer, and for a brief moment I imagine she got out some other way. Then at the end of the corridor I spy the woodgrain of a rifle butt. Fear eats up my hope. When I reach, it takes all my strength to push the Ku Klux lying atop the rifle away.

  Underneath is Sadie.

  She sits propped against a wall. And she’s … I swallow. Lord, she tore up bad.

  Her overalls shredded, and the checkered shirt soaked in blood. The arm holding Winnie is a ruin of open flesh and she got her other hand pressed to her middle. When I grip her shoulder, calling her name, big brown eyes open to fix on me. Her lips gone pale, and she works to mumble. “Maryse. Why you yelling and making all that noise?”

  Hadn’t noticed I was yelling.

  “You see all them Ku Kluxes me and Winnie got?”

  “I see them. Can you stand? We gotta get out!”

  She chokes on a laugh. “Stand? Don’t know if I still got legs. They gone numb. Can’t feel my hands much neither. And it’s shivering cold.”

  “I’ll carry you! Can’t weigh more than some change.”

  The corner of her mouth rises at my joke, but then she lets out a haggard breath. “Don’t think I’m leaving Frenchy’s tonight.” She lifts the hand from her middle and I choke on a gasp. Her belly been ripped clean open, pouring blood. I press my cap against the wound, trying to make it stop. Please, God, make it stop!

  Sadie pushes feebly at my hand. “You need to go, Maryse. No sense we both burn up in here. You just make sure they give me a nice funeral.”

  “No!” I shout, coughing on smoke. “Plan your own damn funeral!”

  But she keep talking like she don’t hear me. “Up in a church. I know I ain’t go much, but I want one anyhow. With a big choir too. And lots of singing. Make sure Lester up front, bawling his eyes out. Tell him I don’t want him to move on just yet. He should pine over me so that it mess up anything he try to have with the next two or three women who come along. And you and Chef do something special for me. Something you know I’d like.”

  “Sadie…,” I whimper.

  Her eyes turn to me. “My grandpappy say when we die, we get our wings back, the ones white folk cut off when we come here. Maybe I’ll fly and meet my mama. Or all the way back to Africy. Lester tell me one of those queens of Meroe fought them Romans. She was a mean lady too, with an eyepatch. Cut the head off one their statues and buried it under her palace! Ain’t that something? I woulda made a damn good queen! Can you picture me with an eyepatch, Maryse?”

  I don’t get to answer. Because Sadie dies right there in my arms.

  Laying her still body back against the wall, I smooth her hair, letting her braid fall in the front the way she like. Then I put her arms around Winnie, before kissing her forehead and saying goodbye.

  When I leave, it ain’t through the back. I head down what’s left of the main stairs, the smoke and flames no longer bothering me. There’s a heat building in me far worse. When I hit the floor I start up into a run. Think part of my clothes is on fire but don’t much care. I aim for the front door, launching out into the night,

  The first Klan who looks up stares wild-eyed behind his hood as I fly through the air, screaming like a banshee. I’m set to bury my humming blade right through his skull, but he not a Ku Klux—just a man. And I gave my word to Nana Jean. So I cut off his hand instead. He stares dumb as it flies away with the whip and I kick him in the chest to send him sprawling. Another Klan I hamstring, listening to his screams as he drops. A third I smack in the face with the flat of my wide blade once, twice, till I hear the satisfied crunch of breaking teeth as blood stains his white hood. But they not who I want. The rage in me needs to kill something. Something that ain’t people.

  Several Ku Kluxes finally appear. I scream at them to change. I want to murder them as monsters. But they fall back. The Klans too. Finally one steps up, big and broad. Butcher Clyde.

  “Maryse,” he calls. “Told you we’d see each other again soon.”

  “I’m going to kill you,” I tell him plain.

  “Why, Maryse, we don’t think we’ve seen you so mad.” The eyes behind that hood read me. “Mmm, there’s loss there. Something unfortunate happen to one of your friends. The tall one? No? Ohhh! The one like spitfire! With the rifle! Sweet little Sadie?”

  I’m on him soon as her name drops out his foul mouth. In my head the spirits of vengeful slaves cry out, and I feel their anger in my swing, eager to take his head off. But he pulls back, faster than I’d expected, and my sword meets metal with a sharp clang that reverberates up my arm. A cleaver. I come at him again, only to be met by another cleaver
. He uses both as I hammer at him, blocking me at every turn.

  Frustrated, I pull back, catching my breath. He chuckles.

  “Told you already, we’re no dog to be put down. You a might better with that little trinket, give you that. Better than that night outside Memphis.”

  His words send me stiff. And under that hood, I imagine he grins. “Really think we didn’t know where you was hiding? Beneath the floorboards, in the dark, shivering and shaking. Of course we did. But we needed you to become who you are now. Needed to fill you up with horror. Anger. Why we left you that little present in the barn.”

  Something in me breaks. I snarl like I ain’t human no more, white-hot fury behind my swings that strike sparks off his cleavers. I don’t want to just kill him, I want to end him utterly so that nothing’s left. The song in my ears is blaring, pounding with my blood. For a moment I’m sure I have him, until he starts to sing.

  It don’t come from his mouth, not the one on his face. It’s those other mouths, the small ones all opening now under his robes, singing in a chorus without harmony or pattern. Like in the dream, it hurts. A sharpness that cuts through me, distorting my rhythm. I stagger off beat, my song fluttering in my grasp like a thread. I try to catch it, but it slips away—gone.

  I stumble as Butcher Clyde’s song pours into my ears. My swings go wrong. I can’t even keep my balance, tripping on my own feet, slipping to one knee and bringing my sword up as two cleavers descend in a silver flash. There’s a jolt as they hit, sending pain through my body. As I watch, stunned, my blade seems to warp with this awful singing, turning brittle—before it shatters.

  My mind won’t accept what just happened, even as the broken sword pelts me with metal that turns to smoke and my hand goes empty. I call out for the blade, for the songs and the visions. But there’s only Butcher Clyde’s terrible disharmony filling the emptiness. He places the cleaver’s edge right under my chin, forcing me to look into eyes turned to mouths studded with teeth.