Cursed by Christ

by Matthew Warner

  Jonah stepped forward, waving his hands back and forth as if to shush her. “No, missus, no. You be misunderstanding—”

  “And is it not strange,” she continued, “how the display of that pattern always precedes the escape of one or two slaves?”

  Jonah dropped his hands. Eliza bowed her head.

  “All of you conspire with each other, don’t you, planning your escapes with these quilts. Yes indeed, I’ve been here quite long enough to discern your scheme—how, for instance, the ‘North Star’ pattern instructs those slaves contemplating escape to literally follow the North Star. I know, for instance, that the ‘drunkard’s path’ pattern admonishes would-be contraband to travel a zigzagged path in order to elude pursuers.”

  Alice wasn’t entirely sure of everything she said, only piecing it together through her own observations and what she’d learned with the angel’s wings, but she was sure the substance of it was right. The North’s illegitimate emancipation edict, after all, was over a year old, encouraging slaves to flee their masters.

  “Missus …” Eliza started, but Alice was brushing past her and out of the kitchen building. A chicken pecking the bare ground stood in her way, so she kicked it into the air.

  She walked around to the house’s front doors instead of entering through the rear, not conscious of anything except the expanding, boiling feeling in her chest. She entered the main foyer. Holding her forehead, she took a hitching breath and leaned against the tall table by the wall. Between its legs stood a mirror to check petticoats; she did so, then stopped herself.

  Why am I checking this? I don’t care how they look, and there’s no man here to care either.

  She overturned the table, shattering the mirror.

  Jonah and Eliza Tefera had entered through the back door and now ran in from the pantry. “Missus?”

  She knew she was angry but could do nothing about it except keep herself from lashing out at them. Refraining to look at them, she stepped over the table and into the study.

  Climbing onto the footstool, she yanked the Bible volumes to the floor, where their spines cracked on impact. Jesus was the cause of her suffering, and always had been. If she could only get her hands around His neck. …

  Watching from the doorway, Eliza whispered into her husband’s ear. Alice heard her: “What can we do?”

  “The ritual,” he replied.

  The Bible tore apart in Alice’s hands like autumn leaves.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  She had forgotten about the Teferas’ whispered conversation by that night—had barely heard it anyway—but it stuck in her memory like a bee in tree wax. Were they planning some mischief against her? Had she endangered herself by foolishly revealing that she had deciphered their quilt code?

  But her mind was now on other things: a letter to Jefferson Davis, President of the Confederate States of America, inquiring the status of Thorton Norwick, who began the war as a major. “He has been absent well nigh three years, and I have not the faintest notion of his whereabouts,” she wrote. “Please forward this letter thereto and instruct he write me. If this is impossible, pray inform me as to his health and well-being.”

  It was the most gumption she’d had to do anything in a very long time, and she felt it was the right thing to do. Knowing if Thorne were dead or alive, she could plan her life accordingly. She reread the letter seven times before blowing out her candle, casting the room into darkness.

  Hairs suddenly prickled on her arms. There was movement in the hallway. Alice bolted to her feet.

  And a shadowy figure entered: Jonah Tefera.

  He just stood there, staring at her, silence stretching out while he appeared as uncertain what to do as she.

  “Coming to silence me for what I know?” Alice said. Within her, the angel’s wings unfolded and reached their tips into her hands. Her palms burned as they had the day she killed Reverend Forney. She raised her fists like a boxer.

  “I ain’t here to hurt the missus. We’se lit two huge ones. Havin’ a shout.”

  He was referring to one of their gatherings near the slave settlements, where they’d light bonfires and sing hymns. Obie had forbidden them.

  “Do you wish to be punished?” she said. “Why tell me this?”

  Jonah grimaced as if he were spitting up something vile. “’Cause I here to make a deal. If the missus don’t say nothin’ about the quilt code, then she can come to the shout. We can help her with the Knowing.”

  “The what?” She had heard Eliza use that term once before, long ago. “What makes you think I need help?”

  Jonah didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. She knew he was right. Alice lowered her hands, the burning in her palms subsiding. The lines of her palms flashed momentarily like fireflies, but Jonah didn’t appear to notice.

  “Jonah, how do I know that once I’m out there amongst you slaves that you won’t kill me?”

  He appeared mortified. He took a step back into the hallway. “No, we never—”

  “Perhaps I should just stay here, and tomorrow I’ll tell Obie about your code. All quilts except those with plain patterns shall be forbidden. And you Teferas shall be whipped or worse for being the leaders of this conspiracy.”

  A part of her regretted speaking so harshly to this slave, one of the very few people she still cared about. But slaves and masters did not bargain and negotiate—about anything. She expected her threat to end the conversation and for Jonah to run from the house in fright, to end whatever mischief they were planning. But he surprised her by standing up straight:

  “Iffen the missus want us whipped, then we be whipped. The missus want us sleepin’ under plain quilts, then we’se sleepin’ under plain quilts. But ain’t no way she or Mister Redger or no one else stop the runaways from happenin’.”

  Alice regarded him in shock. She could have him hanged for speaking so presumptuously. Half-heartedly, she said, “We’ll just see about that.”

  “Iffen you do that to us, you’d still be mad wid Jesus for how long the massa gone in the War. You need help, and I’m offerin’. I’se only want you stayin’ shushed in payment.”

  She felt her resolve crumbling. She did want help—some way to ease the pain. But how could these slaves do that? Even with all their abilities—no stranger than hers—how could her attending a single slave “shout” restore her happiness?

  “Again, Jonah, how do I know that once I’m out there you won’t silence me by a different way?”

  “’Cause we ain’t killers!” He said it with such vehemence that her heart jumped. “But iffen we was, we know we’d be found out.” The corner of his mouth curled wryly. “It seem that ever’thing ’round here gets found out eventually.”

  Jonah watched her for awhile, his face working with unreadable emotions. “Follow me or not. You choose.” Slowly, he turned and headed down the stairs.

  Alice now recalled the Teferas’ conversation as they watched her desecrate the Bible. What can we do? … The ritual.

  Out of curiosity and hope, she chose to follow.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Walking past the kitchen colony and the pine grove where Alice had had a rose bush planted last year, Jonah led her down the trail to the west field, and beyond it to the slave settlement. They remained as silent as the row of slaves’ cabins they passed.

  Down another path, and she heard the slaves before she saw them. They were praying—at least she thought they were praying, but the sound was neither speaking nor singing. Somewhere in between. It was not so loud as to be heard at the Big House or the Overseer’s House on the other side of the west field. Hundreds of voices rose and fell in different litanies. In other circumstances, she might have mistook the sound for an orchestra warming up before a performance.

  Yes, this was definitely a “shout” gathering, also called a ring shout or glory shout—and it was definitely against the rules. Poppa had generally disliked these gatherings but had permitted them as long as white chaperones were present. Th
e whites’ fear, now about to be validated before Alice’s eyes, she was sure, was that the slaves used these meetings to plan escapes and insurrections. They might even use them to practice the pagan religions they had brought over from Africa.

  Clouds obscured the stars and moon, darkening the night more than usual, so she took Jonah’s arm. She would normally have felt uncomfortable touching a slave this way, as if he were a white man, but they had left their roles back at the house.

  The path emptied into another clearing where a huge throng of slaves had gathered around two bonfires. Astonished, she thought it was nearly all of them—the full two hundred.

  They were dancing—not the ballroom dancing she was used to, with ladies and gentlemen making courtly twirls, but individually, gyrating in a large ring. While the women remained dressed as normal, the men were naked from the waist up, their skin seeming to melt into the air as if the night had quivered into substance. Not a simple prayer gathering. Could it be the same kind of secret conclave Momma had witnessed as a child?

  A woman she recognized as Eliza’s helper from that afternoon spotted them and pointed. “The missus! The missus!”

  The cry silenced them as suddenly as a cannon blast. The dancers froze, chants catching in their throats. Four hundred eyes focused on her. She felt her bowels constrict with terror for the second time that night. There wasn’t a white face in the crowd—no one to protect her. Despite Jonah’s assurances, she was sure now that the slaves would lynch her to avoid punishment.

  Undeterred, Jonah led her right into the middle of the circle, and it closed around them. Trapped between the slaves and the two bonfires, which were already raising sweat from her back, Alice wished she hadn’t come.

  “Jonah?” the slaves were saying. “What you doin’?”

  “The missus be in pain,” he said, his voice loud and authoritative. “She goin’ be in the shout.”

  Alice was surprised to see children cowering by the women’s knees. That made her more terrified—to protect their offspring from punishment, the slaves would surely kill her. The hostility flowing from them, the way the circle was tightening, assured this. With their muscles exposed, she was suddenly aware of how much stronger the slaves were than her. Even the women appeared vastly more able-bodied than any white woman. They had done much more than bear the children Alice had been unable to conceive for herself.

  “She goin’ be in the shout,” Eliza echoed from the crowd. Alice watched her push into the clearing. Jonah’s wife walked proudly, with her back straight. Her voice boomed just as loudly: “We’se the shouters and goin’ give the missus the smoke.”

  Some in the crowd gasped.

  “We say it’s so,” Jonah said. “The punishment, if there be any, be on our heads—me and Eliza.”

  Alice felt a surge of warmth for the two cooks. They were making themselves vulnerable to both her and the other slaves, offering her something surely no white person had ever experienced.

  “I promise,” Alice said, her voice scratchy and dry, “I promise I won’t reveal your meeting to anyone. I—I’m here for your … for your help.”

  There were nods of assent, and many resumed their positions farther from the fires. Others, however, watched suspiciously, looking right into her eyes, which slaves never did. It was probably the first time in their lives they had ever challenged a white person in this way. Others glanced nervously into the woods, as if worried Obie Redger and his assistants from town would ambush them.

  “We mean it,” Jonah said to the stragglers. “The missus goin’ be in the shout. Iffen you don’t like it, go home.”

  Maybe the thought of voluntarily leaving the gathering was worse than the discomfort of Alice’s presence, but the rest of them joined the larger circle.

  Eliza held out her hand to the crowd. “The smoke. Who has it?”

  Several corncob pipes were offered to her. “One will do,” she said, and brought a pipe over to Jonah and Alice. Before handing it to them, she took a long, hard drag from the stem. Smoke erupted from the bowl when she pulled it away.

  Jonah took the pipe and sucked on it, and Alice watched curiously as he held the smoke in, his eyes shut tightly. Eliza was holding in her smoke, too, until they exhaled together.

  He nodded at Alice and held the pipe out to her. “Ey rokna boh wanh.”

  “What?” Alice said.

  “Just take it, missus.”

  She hesitated—the thought crossing her mind of how repulsive it would be to smoke a slave’s pipe—but accepted it anyway. This wasn’t the time for propriety, not with the whole plantation teetering on the edge of murdering her. “Thank you.”

  She sucked timidly on the stem. The smoke was harsh and acrid, and she immediately coughed it out.

  A murmuring passed through the crowd, and she didn’t like the sound of it. She sucked again, harder this time. An ember appeared in the tobacco, fanned by the suction. No, this wasn’t tobacco at all. She’d seen enough tobacco in her life to know that, but she didn’t know what this was.

  Appearing satisfied, Jonah passed the pipe back into the crowd. He raised his arms. “Boknu!”

  The slaves took this as cue to resume their dancing, slowly at first, their movements as disjointed as before. But as Alice watched the pipes move from mouth to mouth, the stepping fell into a single rhythm. Or maybe they had been in rhythm all along, and she hadn’t seen it until now? Blinking, she shook her head and looked again, sure now that was the case. They were—and had been—moving in time with the flickering shadows of the bonfires, the orange glows chopping against their skin.

  They resumed their muted singing of before, which she had also—mistakenly—believed contained no organization. But she now heard how their voices flowed in and around the rhythm of their steps, more synchronous now and marked by the beating of their heels upon the earth. Somehow, they knew which rhythms to tap, and she had no doubt that if drums had also not been forbidden—for fear that the slaves used them to communicate with other plantations—she would be awash in the deafening clang of wooden spoons upon washtubs.

  Lightheaded and trying not to faint, she searched the sky for something that wasn’t moving. She gasped the night air. What was happening to her? Whatever she’d smoked was crawling through her head like ants.

  Someone tugged her into the suffocating mass of bodies, each writhing in the firelight. She was frightened until she felt Eliza and Jonah on either side, hands on her shoulders, showing her how to step. She moved with the river of slaves in figure-eight loops between the bonfires. Their voices mixed with the ants in her head until she thought she’d fall the rest of the way into madness. But as scared as she was, she couldn’t help being excited. This was the most alive she’d felt in three years.

  Their path tightened around the fires, everyone moving faster, the stench of bodies and smoke filling her nose and mouth. She was startled to see that some men were waving flaming branches in the air and then yelling in defiance of pain as they snuffed the fire with their bare hands.

  The beats of their heels drew together the singers’ disparate melodies and chants. And as if the act of melding their voices had exhausted them, everyone began quieting, until there was only the thump of feet.

  They moved in this relative silence for a while, but Alice still felt the unity of rhythm and purpose. If anything, it had grown stronger, mixing with the firelit movements and the building sensations in her head. The crowd tightened, everyone touching the person ahead until they formed a figure-eight web of limbs, with the two bonfires in the spaces.

  But were they touching, or were they really part of the same body?

  She asked herself this, afraid of her growing certainty that they were in fact connected—bodily—and afraid of what would happen if she tried to remove her hand from Jonah’s bare shoulder in front of her. With a start, she felt Eliza, behind her, sneaking a hand up the arm of her dress to firmly connect with her tricep.

  Jonah’s voice brought the drumbea
ts to a stop. “I!” he shouted.

  The crowd answered: “I!”

  “I!”

  “I!” they repeated, their voices two hundred echoes of his—not two hundred people echoing him, but two hundred echoes of the same voice. Was she imagining this?

  It was the start of a song, with Jonah as cantor, a song she was surprised to recognize:

  “I want!”

  “I WANT!”

  “To go!”

  “TO GO!”

  “Up Jacob’s …”

  “JACOB’S!”

  “Ladder!”

  “LADDER!”

  Their pitch rose on “Jacob’s” like the ladder they sang about. She again thought of the ritual that Momma had witnessed as a child, when she’d purloined the angel’s wings that Alice had inherited. In the bonfire, Momma had seen a ladder to Heaven.

  And as she danced through the loops with the slaves, finding it unusually easy to avoid tripping on her skirts, and with her voice growing hoarse as she sang along, Alice wondered if another ladder to Heaven might rise here. She looked into the bonfires as she passed them, searching with all her senses, including the angel’s wings, which now didn’t feel so much like wings as they did long antennae. She sensed no ladders within the fires, but did feel her invisible antennae slip into them as if through doorways, maybe into another world. She would keep watching. If a ladder to Heaven did arise here, Jesus might take the opportunity to retrieve the powers—or at least put her out of her misery.

  “I want!”

  “I WANT!”

  “To go!”

  “TO GO!”

  The sensation of oneness intensified. But it didn’t frighten her anymore, not even when a man’s arm plunged into the back of the woman in front of him and emerged seamlessly from her chest. White eye sockets and tongues. It just didn’t bother her, because what Jonah’s song was saying …

  “Up Jacob’s …”