John Crow's Devil

by Marlon James

  As a Pastor, nobody was sure of Hector Bligh’s authority, but York was an Apostle. Like Peter and Paul, like somebody who knew Jesus. His certificate said so. Lucinda hung the framed paper in the office that she spent two days purging of Hector Bligh. She had helped the Apostle move; her steely resolve withered down to a meek, servile heart. Yet there was not much to move as the Apostle had taken next to nothing for his journey.

  In five days, he had already brought a change in Lucinda. She relaxed the shoulders that were always tense, smoothed away the twist in her nose from her permanent frown. But Lucinda was uneasy. He mentioned tea only once but the moment nagged her still. She wondered how much he guessed and how much he knew. God never shared her secrets before.

  Change was refiguring Gibbeah. Every village had a rhythm that revealed itself in the pace men walked and women talked. The change alarmed the old folk whose lives had been reduced to watching such things. The village hummed and whistled and whispered and shouted and laughed. Even the unsaved were caught up with meeting him. Even the drunkard men and loose women were curious about this Apostle York, the savior-killer of Holy Sepulchral Full Gospel Church of St. Thomas Apostolic. The man who had beaten and maybe even killed Pastor Bligh, then sent him to Hell. The man who made the Holy Ghost thunder.

  Lucinda wiped the church clean of Hector Bligh. Hector Blight, she called him, and spat on the floor. She came with mop, bucket, detergent, and water. She came with a mind bent on riddance and a heart on restoration. Lucinda scrubbed the church clean herself, wiping to the melody of “Closer Than a Brother” riding side-saddle on “Swing Low Sweet Chariot.” This was her work. This was her purpose. God told her to make paths straight and to make the church ready. She wiped the podium, mopped the altar floor, and rubbed the windows to such a sparkly sheen that sunlight slipped through and bounced off wooden benches. The office was next.

  Clutter blackened the room. Light blue walls surrendered to the shadows of books, pictures, and maps. She opened the glass window and the dust woke up, swirling around her like demons. She cursed the Rum Preacher, whose smell the room carried, along with liquor and failure. Lucinda threw out every book not marked Bible. Two hours later the clean and spacey room gave her pause. The large mahogany desk reclaimed its splendor, commanding the center of the room. The chair stood waiting behind it. Bibles were returned to clean bookshelves that bracketed the desk on the right and left walls. Lucinda had washed and polished the floor until she could see her raw knuckles in the reflection. Closer than a brother to swing low sweet chariot. She brought in the Apostle’s books, even though not told to do so, and caressed the ones she recognized: an American Bible and a Bible concordance. The rest, books of Maccabees and Wisdom, Notorious Arts and Hermetics, and some with no name, she puzzled over briefly, but stacked them confidently when she came across the name Solomon. “Wisdom is as wisdom does,” she said. The office was ready.

  “My word … Look at this! I tell you, Lucinda, you have a gift! A true gift! Lord bless you! I tell you, this place was going to Hell in a hand basket, but God just used His daughter. Yes He did, yes He did.” He touched her forehead and pools of red welled up in her ebony brown cheeks.

  “Tha … Pastor … I mean, Apostle. Pardon, sir.” She left quickly, uncomfortable with a man she had already declared a spiritual force. An Apostle was so much more than a Pastor or a sinner.

  “As you wish. Sunday, then.” He grinned. Laugh lines interlocked with each other and weakened her knees.

  “S—Sunday.”

  Behind the village and across the river Pastor Bligh was asleep. He fell behind dead coconut and banana trees, resting beneath a roof that had formed itself out of fallen branches. Ramshackle and weak, it threatened to fall at any moment. The Pastor felt the same way. Yet he tried not to feel. He was stubborn in believing that things were as God willed and only by accepting them would he find peace. Bligh had known this day would come, he saw it coming up from the bottom of a rum bottle. Vengeance was the Lord’s, and God was exacting His. Hector Bligh’s bruised face ached. His mind was restless, taking turns between guilt, confusion, and the shame at being found out. One could play at being a preacher for only so long before God stomped out such mockery with his feet. The river’s tumult brought him to calm and he fell asleep.

  Hector Bligh came to Gibbeah in 1951 and had been there six years. Many had heard of him, but nobody from Gibbeah. His father and brother both died in 1927, the father of a broken heart, the brother of a broken neck. Hector remembered the wide sweep of the marble floor and the ordered lines of tiles shattered by his brother’s twisted body. He had fallen over the balcony. The housekeeper screamed at the sight. Looking up to the floor above, she saw Hector—naked, sweaty, with his penis still erect—and screamed again. In Hector’s bedroom, crouched naked in a dark corner and sobbing, was his brother’s wife. The ruffled bed was witness to their sin. He joined the seminary soon after.

  Guilt drove Pastor Bligh’s life. Failure that seemed constant and deliberate. Gibbeah was his eleventh parish in twenty years. Ten of those he’d spent in study, a relief to him given his failure as a preacher. Bligh’s salvation record was the worst in the county. People would say that if the Rum Preacher was all that stood between Heaven and Hell, then everybody had better stock up on asbestos. There were some who wondered why a man as rich as Aloysius Garvey would hire someone as worthless as Pastor Bligh, but there were others who felt they already knew. Aloysius Garvey did not meddle in poor people’s business, and poor people were not expected to meddle in his. The villagers paid rent by slipping the money in his letterbox, not by dealing with him personally. This was how things were done, and father and mother taught son and daughter the same way. Neither Mr. Garvey nor his nephews had been seen in weeks, so nobody expected to see him now, welcoming the Apostle. That was poor people business.

  Something prodded Bligh’s face searching for a way inside. He thought he was dreaming until the stick pushed itself between his lazy lips, hitting his teeth with blunt force. He woke up stunned, and the girl, the youngest of the three, screamed, terrified and thrilled that she had woken up the giant of the bush. Him was sleeping but now him wake and him goin eat her and is her brother fault cause him dare her to do it. The stick fell from his mouth as he rubbed his eyes. He heard them giggling. The Pastor was found.

  Bligh brushed the crusty mud off his jacket and stood up. The rest of his body was still asleep. He hid behind the shadows of trees as the children ran away. By now, most of the houses, the ones on Brillo Road certainly, had running water so nobody had reason to come to the river anymore. She flowed slowly, a movement colored with dejection that matched his own. Bligh was forgotten. This was where demon girl Lillamae was found floating, and since then the river had a thing of death. What that thing was, nobody was really sure. Something that lived and did not in a state like a vapor, or a spirit, or a memory, or nothing at all. It was inevitable that this would be the place to find a dead girl, inevitable as Ophelia. Now the river was merely a boundary to keep good in and evil out.

  His mind fought against him, trying to make sense of Sunday. But Bligh would not think of that day. This was why he drank, so that his mind could never rebel against itself. There were some in Gibbeah who wondered if he would ever grow tired of mockery and scorn, but Bligh never refused it. He accepted being thought of as simple, hopeless, even stupid. He accepted the whispers that went before him and the laughter that crept after. Bligh accepted these things because he knew that if they stopped whispering or laughing then they would start thinking. And if the villagers started to think they would realize that he had no business being a preacher. A sinner playing a saint’s game, his brother’s ghost would whisper every time he pulled the white and purple robes over his head.

  Enough with thinking! Better to live by a tree and shit by the river. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

  Before the week was out the village knew where to find Pastor Bligh.

  Lawd a massy,
Puttus, you no hear the latest bout the Pastor?

  No! Is weh you a hide the secret for, pop the story give we!

  Well, people say the Pastor deh down a river a live like mad man.

  Holy Jesus our Heavenly Father.

  True-true. Him deh down deh a live like dog. People say him all a shit down deh.

  Then where people expect him fi shit?

  We did think say the Apostle kill him.

  Who say him no dead?

  True-true, the Rum Preacher is nothing but duppy now, heh-hay!

  Then you a go look?

  No baba, who want to see that deh?

  People who see him say when him head take him, him play wid him teeli.

  Lawks, how people mouth so dutty! Plus, everybody in Gibbeah know that deh cocky already.

  Then hi, Pastor Bligh a go stay down the river for the rest of him life?

  We no know, why you no go ask him? Why him no go back where him come from, is what Christian people want to know.

  Eehi. Way it seem, it shouldn’t hard fi get back to where him come from.

  How you figure so, since him no figure that out yet?

  Easy! All him have to do is dig a hole deep enough and him is there, me chile. Home sweet home.

  True-true. Be it ever so humble.

  Be it what?

  Lawks, you people no watch picture show? You ignorant, baba.

  Ignorant like you, baba!

  The Pastor knew that everybody knew and everybody knew that the Pastor knew that everybody knew. Yet everybody acted as if they knew nothing; as if the secret was too terrible to share with the Apostle. The village bounced to a new rhythm as if Hector Bligh had never existed.

  Sunday. Church was so full that Lucinda had The Five set up stack-able chairs at the front and side doors. Some came to praise and worship, but most came to see. They sat and spoke and gossiped and laughed like penny stinkers. The choir raised praise songs and those who didn’t know the words either hummed or stared at the ceiling, trapped in a moment that they had never been a part of. They clapped to songs that needed no clapping or stood quiet, hoping that silence would be read as reverence. Lucinda was already in front. Her arms were spread wide as she spun and spun and spun. But nobody had come to see her. They waited and he appeared. The Apostle’s robes billowed even though there was no wind. Pastor Bligh’s robes were white and purple. Lavender and bleach. Detergent and antiseptic. The Apostle’s black and red robes blew with flesh and blood, terror and magnificence. The choir simmered down to “Amazing Grace” and he gripped the podium, overcome by the spirit.

  “Oh Lord! Oh Heavenly Father! King of Kings and Lord of Lords! Save us for we are wretches, dear Lord! Of which I am the worst! Redeem us, mighty one! We were blind but now we see! Oh precious Lord!”

  “Consuming fiiiiiiiiiiiire! Consuming fiiiiiiiiiiiiire!”

  “Hallelujah!”

  “Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord!”

  “Jesus!” came from a woman at the back. Before she sat down, a cough arose that would not go away. She patted her chest, but the cough harassed her throat. She doubled over.

  “Lift up this congregation Lord, as we give you the highest praise! And the church shall say …”

  “Amen.”

  “Come church, what kind of fenke-fenke Amen that? The Lord wants to smell the sweet fragrance of your praise. AND THE CHURCH SHALL SAY?”

  “AMEN!”

  The woman was still coughing. One of The Five took her outside, where she vomited. When there was nothing left to vomit she heaved and hacked and stumbled to the ground. The usher helped her up and she vomited again.

  The congregation then sat down and the Apostle stared at them for several minutes, casting a curious eye at some, an indignant eye at others.

  “Seems that so many of us are so—what’s the word I’m looking for?—consumed, yes, consumed by holy fire that we just had to come to His house today, Amen? After all, it must be God that we’ve all come to see, eh, Clarence? So many of you looking, nobody really seeing, blind by what binds. I know why some of you are here. I know why most of you are here. You didn’t come for the message, you came for the mess. But you know, praise God, He doesn’t give a damn how you get into His presence, just as long as you get into Him.”

  “Hallelujah! Hallelujah!”

  “But really now, I want to do something preposterous. Can I do it, church? Can I do it? Is that alright? Yes? Okay, everybody who wasn’t in church last week, please stand up.”

  One by one they stood up at the back. The drunkards cursed themselves for being opened up to such shame. Even Christians were afraid of being made an example of. Some smiled smiles already weakened by embarrassment, some stared at the ground. Only a few looked at the Apostle, who held the moment for a few seconds. “Praise God. Church, today we’re going to talk about lost sheep.”

  The Rum Preacher knew he would not be seen. That took no faith; he knew Gibbeah’s love for spectacle. They were drawn to the Apostle, but he was drawn as well. He went all the way to the old cobblestone track that led up to the church steps, but grew heartsick as soon as he saw the steeple. He could go no farther.

  “I tell you, church, it’s up to you to bring every one of these lost sheep back. I can’t do much. I can only minister against the sinister. It’s up to you. Now understand me. I know it’s not your fault why we losing sheep. It’s his fault. You know of who I speak.”

  “Preach it, Preacher!”

  “A preacher starts a church with ten members and dies with the same damn ten. But I’m not a preacher. I came with a sword. If you’re not serving the Lord, you’re serving the Devil. One or the other, until you die. So when you crawl out of a bed that is not yours, it can only be the Devil’s work that you’re doing. Can I get a witness, Clarence?”

  Clarence felt his balls quiver.

  “Lost sheep. Some of us don’t want to be found. You ready for this secret, Gibbeah? This will make you tremble. Some of you are in the middle of the flock and still lost.”

  The snoring woman was shaken awake. She opened her eyes suddenly, aware of her awkwardness before she saw the pool of her own drool on the floor. A stream of it hung suspended from her bottom lip unawares to her. She collected herself, sat up straight, and opened her Bible like an eager student. When the tail of spit finally fell onto the page, she shut the Bible loudly and wiped her lip, darting glances left and right.

  Pastor Bligh retreated to the river. Only she would welcome him now. Only a few days ago he had staggered under guilt and shame, but now he could not escape a feeling of lightness. What was this then, honesty rising up from the torpid waters of truth? Relief? The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. He was set to become Pastor from before his brother’s death, so why should his life be bowed down by it still? Bligh accepted guilt as he did all things; condemned to live his brother’s death over and over. His time and memory was as God’s, without boundary. But why feel torment at being rejected on Earth when rejection was already decreed in Heaven? Maybe Apostle York was blessing and curse. Maybe this was reprieve dressed up in punishment. He let the river’s free flow convince him. He thought of a hundred burdens washing away, the yoke of sinners, the confessions of reckless conscience. Let somebody else worry about mothers sticking blame unto sons and fathers sticking penises into daughters.

  Freedom washed over him. He was knee deep in water, splashing, kicking, and twirling, compelled, but not happy. No joy then, but perhaps release. No smile but a gasp. Not a laugh, but a sudden, sharp intake of breath. Bligh removed his pastoral jacket, pulled off his pastoral shirt and undershirt, and stepped out of his pastoral pants and shorts. He closed his eyes and baptized himself.

  When Hector rose, the clothes had floated away. Making out the white and blue stripes of his shorts, he chased after them, splashing and stumbling several times. He scraped his toes on harsh rocks. He fell and swallowed cold water but the shorts led him like a piper. Bligh heard a laugh; a demon’s and a brother’s.
Look at it, the most wasted ding-a-ling in Christendom. Bligh forgot freedom for shame. The shorts teased him through deep and shallow water, coarse and slippery rocks, weak and mighty currents. They stopped finally on a shelf of grass and mud that shot out from the bank and nearly sealed off the river. Out of breath, he bent down and grabbed them. When he stood up, there in front of him with her arms akimbo and her face scowling was the Widow. He quickly left her face, looking down at the broad shoulders and thick arms that came from years of man labor, the curveless plunge of her black dress that frayed right below her knees.

  “Kiss me raas! Look what the man of God come to?”

  He let the quiet between them grow thick. In the past, drunkenness would have saved him from embarrassment, but now he had no hope but that she would slip away. And should they pass each other, both would be shrouded in their own tribulations and acknowledge no acquaintance beyond a nod. He remembered who she was. The Widow Greenfield had buried her husband five years before and stopped coming to church since.

  “Running bout the river like some mongrel dog with you business hanging all out o door. But then that is nothin new for you. Well, what you have to say for yourself?

  “I suppose cock mouth catch cock. Well, me no know what prospect you have down a river so you might as well come with me. Unless God coming back with a three-piece suit.”

  She stepped off, not looking to see if he would follow. There was nowhere to go but behind her step. He followed her, but not because another night of mosquitoes was unbearable. And not because he would again be under a roof. He followed her because he was now a man stripped of authority and went where authority told him.

  As soon as he saw Brillo Road all sense of relief vanished. The two of them walking the entire length of the street (Widow Greenfield’s house was near the top) created much fuss. One that showed Pastor Bligh what existed beyond shame. As he hobbled dripping in shorts, each step laid bare new humiliation. The defrocked and disgraced Preacher was on the street from which he had been banished with no liquor to diffuse his awareness. The children laughed. The wives whispered. The men turned away. Only Lucinda could make this worse. Or the man in black. Always the man in black. A force, an apparition, never Apostle York. If that were not enough, there he was walking several paces behind the Widow as if he was a dog or a servant. What existed beyond shame? More shame. Disgrace as deep as grief that eroded dignity in ways that were more dreadful than one could imagine. An embarrassment so thick that it disconnected from the subject, mocking him and leaving him even more ashamed. If only the Lord would kill him right now at this very moment. Before Gibbeah would see him drag his feet into Widow Greenfield’s house.