by Marlon James
Mr. Aloysius Garvey, being the owner of the village, declared how he wanted Gibbeah to look. In 1928, he made all houses face the street and painted them rusty red. During Lent when there was drought, dirt would stick to the walls and the village would seem as if trapped in the eye of a dust storm. The houses were all alike, with creaky verandahs and double doors that opened into a small living room with bedrooms flanking both sides. The living room, which was really a hallway, led into the dining room, which some used as the living room. To the left of the dining room was the kitchen. Piped water came twenty-three years later when Bligh did in 1951. There were only two roads in Gibbeah. Mr. Garvey had the idea to build the houses along the pattern of the crossroads, but he could not stop the others, the squatters, from building rickety shacks as they saw fit. Still, when the new houses popped up, they took on the colors of the old ones. Gibbeah was bordered by a river, which swung around the village in a circle like a moat. The bridge was the only way in or out.
Ash Wednesday morning had come and the crows were gone. This was one of five mornings when Mr. Garvey went out in public, except for the funerals of those of stature or those who died under tragic circumstances. Funeral was spectacle in Gibbeah. Black clothing was foreign and expensive, sent over to the village in barrels from relatives living in America, England, or Panama. They were winter clothes, velvets, corduroys, denims, and wools that would conspire with the sun to bake the wearer while sucking his sweat. But there was no spectacle like the Garvey procession. Marching in slow step like pallbearers without a coffin, Mr. Garvey with his nephews in one line behind him would take the left row at the front of the church. He would sit near the window, not bothering to take off his maroon hat with pink trim even in church, and his nephews would fill out the row in descending order of height. Some would gossip that they sat in descending order of color, with the lightest child beside Mr. Garvey and the darkest by the aisle, so that he could be the closest to black people. Before the service was over, he would rise, run his thin fingers over his black pin-striped suit, and his nephews would rise as well. In a line they would leave, the youngest nephew in front and Mr. Garvey in the back, who would toss some money at the altar and march through the door, his coattails flapping in the breeze. But this Ash Wednesday, as church was about to start, there was no sign of Mr. Garvey. Many were curious, but most were like Lucinda, who dismissed such things. Naturally, a man who was so rich that he made black white, would sooner or later stop coming to black people church. Especially a sodomite who was on his way to Hell. Country people took his absence as they took everything else.
But this morning the Rum Preacher was sober. Many forgot how tall he actually was, so like Gregory Peck midway between Roman Holiday and Moby Dick, which were still shown as a double feature at the Majestic. Pastor Bligh was wiry, a giant in the village. But disgrace diminished him. Guilt threw a curve in his back and a hunch in his stance. He had a square jaw with thick eyebrows over thin eyes and short, graying hair that was white at the temples. He was not a dark man, but not light either. His color was a nebulous thing, so like his voice, which was too low to be weak but too reedy to be commanding. In a town that preferred things black or white, grayness such as his was not welcome.
Bligh refused friendship. His sermons even when he was sober rocked with the terror and uncertainty of a man not in control. When the spirit came over him, he was racked without mercy, and left with sweat and tremors. Outside church they avoided him, lest the spirit assail him at that very moment and God punish them too. Sin, guilt, conviction, and redemption: things he may have spoke of, but always carried in the shakiness of his voice.
The church service began at 8:15. The sun was subdued by a mob of reddish gray clouds. Wind slammed the church doors shut. She whispered and taunted through door spaces and half closed windows. Then the doors swung open and wind rushed in, knocking off hats and veils and sweeping up skirts and dresses. For a few seconds the church went to pieces. The wind forced herself all the way up to the altar and knocked over the Pastor’s water glass, which fell on the purple carpet but did not break. Then she vanished.
The organist raised a hymn and within seconds the usual people were at the altar praying, praising, and yelling. Pastor Bligh had a word today. The word was flesh before he was flesh. Not his to claim, just to say. This was a burden he felt unfit for, but what right had he to the anguish of the major prophets? He was humbled that God had tolerated him for so long. But God was leading and he had to follow. Duty, then, not pleasure or purpose. He stood up, without having to correct his balance, and sung with the church.
It soon be done
All my trouble and trial
When I get home
On the other side
I’m gonna shake my hands with the elders
I’m gonna tell all the people good morning
I’m gonna sit down beside my Jesus
I’m gonna sit down and rest a little while!
The church was caught up in chorus singing and Hallelujah shouting. Women and men were dancing before the Lord and confessing his greatness. From the back of the half filled church came a sound like the crash of a tambourine. But from the front, the shattered stained glass window fell like rain. One of the John Crows from before had flown into the window, bursting through like a bullet, exploding in multicolored glass and blood. The organist saw nothing but the choir panicked. Lucinda screamed as the John Crow landed dead on the pulpit. Disgusted, those at the altar went back to their seats. Pastor Bligh instructed The Five to remove the vulture. They hesitated. John Crows were messengers of the Devil—everybody knew it. The Pastor kicked the vulture from the pulpit to the floor. One of The Five took the bird through the door, leaving a trail of blood spatter.
“Wickedness. God sent Jonah to warn Nineveh about wickedness,” Hector Bligh said. “Elijah warned Ahab. John warned Herod. But nobody listens to the man of God. They burn him. They stab him, they whip him, and they chop off his head. They crucify him. They kill the messenger and spit out the message like a bitter orange seed. Everybody kills the messenger, nobody hears the message.”
The congregation had been here before. When he was drunk, Bligh’s sermon jumped from several points in the Bible at once and collapsed under convoluted scripture. When he was sober, he began in a sonorous mumble that grew to a sharp, bitter echo by the end. They had stopped listening to him, but he had stopped preaching to them. He spoke without pause for thought, preaching not to man or God or even himself. He accepted this as easily as he did all defeat. Bligh’s eyes swept the room to see a congregation looking but not seeing, all but one.
“Something’s coming. Something’s coming. Coming on mighty wings. I’m sorry for who not ready. This is not what I came to preach. I came to preach about forgiveness. The Lord had other … This is what Jesus told me to tell you.
“There are those among you not ready. There are those among you, if you died right now, will roast in the lake of fire. If the rapture comes tonight you’ll be swinging from a tree like Judas Iscariot. Satan coming like a roaring lion and he’s going to devour you unless you let the Lord come dwell in you. Unless you come back the Lord. There are those among you grieving the Holy Spirit. You need to purify your heart before it’s too late. Satan coming like a roaring lion.
“Whosoever want God healing stream, come to the altar. Tomorrow might be too late. God’s vengeance is swift and brutal. Nobody will escape the white throne of Judgment.”
Seven minutes later a man rose from his seat and went to the altar. His huge frame and squeaky army boots cut through the stillness of the church. The organist played “Closer Than a Brother My Jesus Is to Me.” The choir hummed. Soon a girl rose, and another, a woman. The altar, easy to approach for praise, was difficult to approach for forgiveness. Church people, through their stares, created a boundary of shame that few climbed over. But then another man stood up, and three more women. Then a child. Lucinda had no choice. She missed her favorite spot, to the right of
the podium, that bore the permanent dent of her knees. She scowled. Pastor Bligh prayed.
“Father, forgive our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us!”
He watched from the back of the church. The man had come with the night but darkness stayed with him in day. He was unnerved by all the excitement. The feeling was as strange as ecstasy or remorse. A fat day or a thin year carried the same weight if one had the same hate. He was taller than the Pastor, with black shoes, black suit, black shirt, black hair, and light skin that the sun had roasted. The altar called him and he made his way. Behind bent knees and prostrate bodies, he stood. The Pastor did not see him at first, but then gaze met gaze and Hector Bligh blinked. Bligh looked away and continued to declare his flock free. But the man’s eyes followed him. He stretched his arms wide and stepped toward the Pastor’s podium. A space cleared as if the church had been waiting for him. The Pastor noticed. The man shut his eyes, but looked upward, as if to a Heaven higher than the Pastor’s. Hector Bligh hesitated before approaching him; admonishing himself that fear was not of God. But surprise was to play no role in this incident. So when the Pastor laid hands on the man in black and he pushed them away, there was no aback to be taken. This was no conflicted soul whose path he would make straight. He knew this but felt compelled to be pastorly. Hector Bligh placed his hands on the man’s head but the man grabbed both, squeezing them to the bone. He made little effort. Hector Bligh knew he was weak, but never before had his weakness been made so manifest.
“So who’s going to forgive you? Who’s going to forgive all of you?”
Bligh did not understand the intimacy. This demon had the wrong man. The man tightened the grip on his arms and agony shot through his shoulders.
“Who’s going to forgive you, you ignorant son of a bitch?”
The man grabbed Pastor Bligh at the sides.
“Who’s going to wash away your sin? Who’s going to purify you of your unrighteousness? Who’s going to make you as white as snow?”
He flung the Pastor into the wall behind him. As he slammed into the bricks, Bligh felt the wind forced out of his lungs. But the man in black was not done. The organist stopped and the congregation was still.
The Five stormed the pulpit, eager to unleash the violence that brimmed in church muscle. The man had gone over to the Pastor and grabbed him by his robes. The Five circled him, about to pounce, but then he raised his hand and pointed two fingers. The men stopped, lunging forward in momentum, but with their feet firm on the floor. They knew they were not frozen. They knew they could walk if they chose to. The Five thought it ridiculous, crazy that this strange man had commanded them without words like they were cows, but none dared move. Someone in the congregation screamed. Another shouted. From the sea of grumbling rose curses and bellows, but then the man raised his hand again, pointed two fingers, and the congregation fell quiet.
Lawd a massy, you should a see it when all Hell break loose in the church!
Then pop story give we.
All we see is this man. First we think say is Devil. Then we think is Gabriel or Michael or one of them strong angel.
Tell we bout the Hell that break loose.
Yes me dear, the man set pon Pastor Bligh like when you a beat mangy dog.
Caca-fart!
You understand? This yah man just grab Pastor like him make out o paper and fling him clear cross the pulpit. Any higher and him would a crash in the stain glass.
Christmas!
If ever. Then next thing you know the man set pon Pastor like demon. Him slap him so, then so, then so, then so again. Before you know it, Pastor a spit blood.
Rahtid!
But him never done. Him thump Pastor in him head, him slap Pastor cross him back, then him kick Pastor in him seed bag. Pastor face mash up. To think just before that the Pastor warning we bout Satan the roaring lion.
Shithouse!
Then him call Pastor three thing.
Three thing? What three thing?
First him call him Disgrace.
Which him is, thank you Jesus.
Then him call him Abominational.
Oh babababa—lekim—shakam!
Then him call him Antichrist. And him say it like this: ANTICHRIST.
Lawd Puppa Jesus!
Eehi. Then the man start speak in tongue, but is no Abba babba tongue, and him still a drop lick pon the Pastor.
What is this pon we Puppa Jesus!
The man grab Pastor Bligh like him is garbage and drag him out of the church himself. We see it with we own eye.
Hataclaps! But hi, a who this man be?
A week later, Lucinda would say that the Holy Spirit was moving in a powerful way. But in that moment, another spirit seemed to be moving through the pews. The man grew taller in those few minutes, and his voice bounced from roof to floor with authority. He could have been Gabriel or Michael or the Avenging Angel sent by God to tell them that He was not pleased. This was judgment on their lying, thieving, and whoring generation. A good thing, then, that Lucinda’s body was blameless. But the man moved with so much darkness that she wondered if his soul was just as black. She cringed as the near-unconscious body of the Pastor was dragged past her. Bligh was muttering to himself, his left hand trailing on the floor and his right in the mighty grip of the man in black. He took Bligh down the aisle and through the church door that nobody remembered opening.
A week later, Lucinda proclaimed his appearance the work of Jesus, but back then she feared the working of another spirit, the one whom preachers called in a hushed voice The Enemy. Back in the church, she clutched herself and whispered an intercessory prayer, dreading yet yearning for the man’s return. Yearning? A long-dead emotion stirred itself, which she rebuked in a flurry of Yes Lords. The church waited. Then he returned, emerging from outside as if the sun had birthed him. He was ruddy and handsome, mixed of black and white, or maybe light Indian or Creole Chinaman. His long, curly hair was unruly from beating Bligh, but Lucinda imagined that it was always that way. She smelt his fire and quickly made for her seat. He saw her as she fled.
“But Lucinda. My sister. Isn’t this what you’ve been praying for? Aren’t your fingers tired from writing? Don’t those knees ache from kneeling, waiting on God?”
He touched her face and whispered, “Didn’t He see you mixing tea til He came?”
Convicted and blessed in one fell swoop, she fell to the ground praying and weeping. The man stepped up to the pulpit and waved away The Five, who had been still up to that point. The congregation felt free as well and raised a rumble of whispers and half-said words. He raised his hand again and the church fell silent, save for Lucinda who praised the Lord for His consuming fire yet wondered how much the man in black knew. She shivered. How could he have heard about the tea? Lucinda brewed hidden weeds whenever she wore her secret skin at night.
“Who knows what just happened here?”
Silence.
“Anybody wants try a guess. No? Speak up, you were all yapping just a minute ago.”
“Consuming fiiiiire.”
“Victory. My Lord has blessed you with victory! Scream it from the highest highs, shout it from the lowest lows, Gibbeah, the Lord has heard your cry. The Lord has seen your suffering. That the body could survive for so long with that abomination as a head is only because of the grace of the One who made you.
“This church is a disgrace, I tell you. Disgrace, and you’re all accountable for it. Did I say all? I stand corrected. The church is half empty. Obviously, the ones with sense are finding God somewhere else. Where did they go? Are they at home? In bed? In somebody else’s bed? Stealing? Sinning? Well speak up, you all had mouth before.
“This is what the body of Christ has come to? Maybe it’s not your fault. Maybe congregations do get the Pastors they deserve. Maybe you and him have a good thing going, eh? He doesn’t try to save you, you don’t try to damn him—oh yes! I know what has been going on here. Things that would make a sodomite blush.
“But God sent me. And the first thing we’re going to do? Clean out this temple.
“Listen to me, Gibbeah. I’ve come to bring back integrity and smash out iniquity, Hallelujah. I’ve come to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. Gibbeah! I’ve come with a sword!”
He grabbed the podium and the congregation watched his face as the same lines that knotted in fury relaxed to warmth.
“When was the last time you saw God? Felt His presence? Heard His voice? When was the last time you entered His gates with thanksgiving and His courts with praise? You didn’t see it, but I see it plainly. The Lord nearly packed his bags to quit this place.
“But God.
“Do you feel the spirit? Can you hear it? It’s here. Revival. New vision. New revelation. I prophesy in His name. Can you feel it, my sister? Is it washing over you, my brother? I feel it. Everybody who is a child of the Lord should be feeling it right now. Right now!
“Yes church, this is a new day. A new era. You know what era means? It means something old gone and something new come. Oh yes.
“My name is York. Anybody knows the hymn, ‘I’m So Glad?’”
DEAD NEPHEWS
He called himself Apostle York. And nothing that had yet invaded Gibbeah—not redifusion radio, Bazooka Joe chewing gum, or condoms—moved with his seismic force. He was a whirlwind. He was a center. Fluttery voices made mention of the Apostle’s looks, so like Tyrone Power in The Mask of Zorro that was still shown at the Majestic, but with a trimmed beard, wet eyes, and unruly black hair, like a coolie. God had sent him to Gibbeah. Jesus looked just like him. This meant he had power to deal with Pastor Bligh as brashly as the Lord dealt with money changers in the Temple. Pastor Bligh, disrobed and disgraced, simply disappeared.
