The Marvellous Equations of the Dread

by Marcia Douglas

  FROM THE ANGEL’S LEDGER BOOK

  [wind fall at 33 ½ rotations per minute]

  Sound Day, 2001 – “I am not mad: I am introducing God.” Lee Scratch Perry, the Upsetter, speaks these words.

  Madness is rampant on this island. The mad dream dreams and have visions. They stand on street corners and tell it. No one listens.

  The mad are the best lovers. The angel knows this.

  The sane are the worst lovers (unless they are sane in an asymmetrical way).

  Sanity can be both asymmetrical and symmetrical. Likewise, madness can also be both asymmetrical and symmetrical. Two related sides of different tunes.

  Jesus Christ was 33 years old when he rose from the dead. The temporal lobe in his right hemisphere picked up a reverb, ricocheted down fire – Krishna, Buddha, Allah, Jah-Jah; Krishna, Buddha, Allah, Jah-Jah; Krishna, Buddha, Allah, Jah-Jah – and he remembered why he had come.

  33 is a symmetrical number which tends to bring asymmetrical outcomes of both the sane and mad. 33 ½ is its tipping point.

  Summer Solstice, 1887 – The sewing needle on Emil Berliner’s phonograph reads the grooves on a metal disc.

  March 21, 1940 – A man in a little district in Jamaica hums as he sews 33 ½ stitches per minute with blue thread.

  DUB-SIDE CHANTING

  Track 11.0: Ampersand

  The smoke clears, and H.I.M. sits on a stone in the yard and eats sugarcane. Bob looks around at the little hill. It is covered with crab grass; a mosquito lands on his forehead.

  “This place, this Dub-side; is where I&I reach?”

  H.I.M. smiles with no teeth, but says nothing. For there are places of the soul not even the Rastaman knows. Places only I-magination can see. The little ampersand of Bob’s I&I fastens and unfastens its latch. Bob opens his mouth and the words rush – &I-I&I-I&I& –

  From a far-far away place, there is an echo of an echo of the whir of a sewing machine –

  “That’s Hector,” says H.I.M. “He arrived at Studio Z. pedalling, and has not stopped sinth. He thinks if he stops he will fall down the mountain to 1940 where he began.”

  “Is true he will fall?”

  H.I.M. shrugs.

  “For him, sewing and Zion are the same thing. And who am I to say otherwise? There is a Zion which is a place deep inside.”

  Bob listens with wistfulness to the faint whir-whir. He climbed Mt. Zion once while strumming guitar. He wished he could have stayed there. He notices the yard. There is a goat tied to a wood fence and a hen pecks at crushed corn. The nutmeg tree is visible now, but beyond it hills extend into miles and miles of more hills, and more nutmeg and bamboo, and there is no trace at all of the whoosh of his arrival. He wonders how in the name of Almighty Jah he could have arrived at the right hand of Haile-I without the ring. Its return to the Almighty’s finger was to mark the completion of his work, he is sure. Without it, how else is he to prove that he has been a dutiful son of the Most High? He looks over at H.I.M. enjoying his sugarcane and marvels at his calm.

  “Rhaatid.”

  H.I.M. watches from his rock on the other side of the yard, spits cane trash into an empty tin.

  “Do not be discouraged,” he says, setting down the tin. “Thuch rings have been lost and found before. And thuch stories have been told before. This is not your purpose.”

  Bob picks up a stone and hurls it across the hill. “Bloodclaat!”

  STUDIO Z

  Track 7.5: The Man in the Brown Fedora

  And Hector pedals and stitches, an exultant smile on his face, his feet moving without effort.

  FROM THE HUMMING OF LIONS IN THE GARDEN OF JAH

  Track 5.0: Jah Bless [Version-Version]

  They say the angel, Negus, was there when Boaz slept with the Moabitess, Ruth. And Ruth begat Obed and Obed begat Jesse and Jesse begat David. And the angel was there when David watched Bathsheba, the Hittite’s wife, bathing on the roof-top. And Bathsheba begat Solomon and Solomon longed for sons. The angel was there when King Solomon made love to the Queen of Sheba. Rasta live.

  They say Solomon was smitten with desire, but the Queen had a hoof, and he was afraid of it. With a stroke of courage, he kissed his ring and put it to her lips; and at its touch, a flame ignited in her mouth and moved all the way down through her woman temple. It would be the only time in her life she would swallow fire.

  Track 6.0: The Morning After

  Queen Makeda knew she was pregnant by the persistent itch at her coccyx and the bitter taste in her mouth. Her hoof was gone and, without it, she felt tired and groggy, anxious to return to her native land. Before her departure, King Solomon gave her a ring with his royal seal – a lion raising a brazen tail. She thought, perhaps it could be the one from the night before – but she was not certain; at its touch, the flame had entered her body, filled her with heat and she had no remembrance of its markings, only the scent of jasmine on Solomon’s hand.

  “Give this ring to the child when it is born,” he said.

  She left for the nine-month journey home to Abyssinia, across desert and mountain, in wind and rain. The boy-child was called Bayna-Lehkem. He was born with a full set of teeth, eyebrows like two dark caterpillars and his father’s high forehead. Queen mother bathed him in a basin of warm water, the golden ring resting at the bottom. Later, she fell asleep as he suckled at her breast and she dreamt of her boy-child grown tall and stalwart and of his children and his children’s children, a line of kings and queens two hundred and twenty-five strong, marching with deliberation into the future. She approached the last – an old man in strange clothing, small in stature, a little dog barking at his feet.

  “What is your name?” she asked him.

  “No one knows what it really is,” he replied.

  “But what do they call you?”

  “The Lion of Judah,” he said. “I am the last emperor, Haile Selassie of Ethiopia. I alone am left.”

  And he held up his right hand, a ring with a brazentailed lion on his finger.

  Selah.

  DUB-SIDE CHANTING

  Track 16.0: The Scent of Nutmeg

  H.I.M. picks bits of cane trash from his clothing; looks over at Bob.

  The nutmeg tree inhales; there is a little shift in the air.

  “If you insist, there is one possibility of return,” he says.

  Bob looks up.

  “You can exchange places with a fallen angel.” There are faint lines on H.IM.’s forehead as he looks away at the hills. “But be prepared to accept the consequences.”

  Away-away in Babylon, there is left-over election blood on the sidewalk; a baby suckles at a dog’s teat; the meat in the market is soon rotten.

  “You will have seven days, but this time, don’t expect to return on the wingth of death. You will need to find Zion’s undisclosed gate – your heart will tell you where it is; such gates are different for each of us. Do all this; then return here.”

  Lulu has fallen asleep on the steps of the little house. Crickets soprano in the hills.

  “And if I don’t find it?”

  “At the end of seven days, you remain in Babylon – a fallen one on the street.”

  Bob is quiet, contemplating the flicker in the home-sweet-home lamp; then he rubs his chin and looks His Majesty in the eye.

  “I&I am about my father’s business.”

  The air in the yard is pungent with the nutmeg tree’s exhale. Somewhere, Hector keeps on pedalling; cerulean-blue thread caught in his mouth.

  THE EXCHANGE: OCTOBER 26, 1981: 3:55 AM [20Hz]

  THE DAY AND THE HOUR ARE DECIDED AND BOTH PROPHET AND FALL-DOWN STAND AT THEIR DESIGNATED PLACES – FALL-DOWN INSIDE THE CLOCK TOWER AT HALF WAY TREE AND BOB ON A ROCK AT THE BOTTOM OF STUDIO D. FALL-DOWN OPENS THE DOOR TO THE CLOCK TOWER WITH THE SET OF KEYS HE CARRIES IN HIS CANVAS BAG. HE HAS KEYS TO THE CLOCK TOWERS IN ALL THE TOWN SQUARES IN JAMAICA – HALF WAY TREE, MAY PEN, MANDEVILLE, PORT ANTONIO, OLD HARBOUR – YOU NAME IT, FOR SUCH MISCELLANY IS THE PRIVILEGE OF A FAL
LEN ANGEL. IT IS RARE THAT ANY OF THE GRAND CLOCKS WORK. MOST ARE THE MARK OF THE ENGLISH, AND NO ONE SEEMS TO WANT TO REMEMBER THE ENGLISH. THEY STAND IN THE SQUARES LIKE NEGLECTED OLD MEN. FALL-DOWN LOOKS BOTH WAYS, THEN OPENS THE PADLOCK ON THE CLOCK TOWER AND STEPS INSIDE, CLOSING THE DOOR BEHIND HIM. THERE IS A FAINT SMELL OF URINE FROM DOGS AND MEN RELIEVING THEMSELVES AT THE BASE OF THE TOWER. HE TAKES OFF HIS CLOTHES AS HE HAS BEEN INSTRUCTED.

  *

  BOB KNOWS THE ROCK AT THE NEVA-EDGE OF THE DUB-SIDE WHEN HE FINDS IT – HIS FINGERS TRACE THE LETTERS ENGRAVED IN ITS SIDE, JAH RASTAFARI. THIS IS THE PLACE WHERE H.I.M. LAYS HIS HEAD WHEN HE DREAMS OF LIONS SINGING REDEMPTION. BOB HAS ARRIVED WITH ONLY A DENIM SHIRT, A PAIR OF TROUSERS AND RED GREEN GOLD UNDERPANTS. HE TAKES THE CLOTHES OFF NOW, FOLDS THEM CAREFULLY AND LAYS THEM ON THE ROCK AT THE PRECISE MOMENT WHEN DOWN IN BABYLON IN THE CLOCK TOWER THE FALLEN ANGEL FOLDS HIS. SOMEONE KISSES BOB ON HIS RIGHT SHOULDER, AND WHEN HE TURNS HE SEES AN OLD WOMAN, SO BEAUTIFUL IN HER AGE – HER DREADLOCS LONG AND WHITE AS MADAM FATE FLOWERS, HER SKIN AS COPPER, HER EYELASHES LIKE THE ANTENNAE OF BUTTERFLIES. WHEN SHE SMILES HER TEETH REVEAL THE WORDS, FOOL’S GATE, WRITTEN IN DARK LETTERS. SHE KISSES HIM AGAIN, THIS TIME ON THE MOUTH.

  “GO NOW, GO,” SHE SAYS.

  IN THE DARK OF THE CLOCK TOWER, FALL-DOWN FEELS THE SAME LIPS AND SMELLS THE SAME SWEETNESS OF COMPELLANCE BEHIND THE WOMAN’S EARS. HE CLOSES HIS EYES, TAKEN BY HER KISS, HIS HAND SUDDENLY IN HER WHITE HAIR, THE OTHER REACHING BENEATH HER STAR FLOWER SHOULDER STRAP. SHE PULLS AWAY FROM HIM, SHAKING A LONG FINGER. “TSK, TSK,” THE WORDS, SECOND CHANCE, ACROSS HER TEETH.

  FALL-DOWN LOOKS AROUND TO FIND HIMSELF ON A HILL OF CRABGRASS AND HIBISCUS FLOWERS. HERE HE IS – NAKED IN A GARDEN OF DELIGHTS, HIS MEMBER DISTENDED – THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN DISAPPEARED.

  “I NO LUCKY AT ALL,” HE SAYS OUT LOUD.

  HERE-SO; HALF WAY TREE

  In The Clock of Babylon

  Down in the clock of Babylon, Bob opens his eyes to darkness. He fumbles around in the closed space and finds Fall-down’s clothes folded in a corner. A shoe, big as jackfruit, surprisingly fits his foot perfect. In Fall-down’s body he has the feeling that he is standing on Jonkanoo stilts. In the opposite corner there is a canvas bag and a wooden staff; he picks them up and feels around for the door. The latch is rusty and moves only after pushing against it with all his weight. He stumbles outside into Half Way Tree and instantaneously has no memory of the Judah ring or why he has returned to Babylon at all. He has seven days to return to the right hand of Jah, that’s all he knows.

  The night is starless and balmy; the streets almost empty except for three youths walking home from a party, and a drunk man wailing in front of the post office. A car speeds by and Bob hears his own voice on the stereo, So Jah sey; he sings along, the sound from his throat deep and scratchy; there is a clink-clink, at his ears. In the early morning darkness in the middle of the square, he stands and looks to all four directions, then heads up Hope Road on his long legs.

  His gate at 56 is locked with a chain. The place is in darkness except for one little light in a room upstairs. He shakes the gate and two dogs come rushing out.

  “Rita!” he calls, still surprised at his voice.

  “Rita!”

  She will recognize him; he is sure. For it was her – even at the hour of his death who had sung background – her soprano wailing pressing him on, straight to the right hand of Jah. “Don’t look back!” she had urged, “Don’t look back!” And now here he is, back at 56 Hope Road, standing at his own gate, a Fall-down.

  “Rita!” he calls.

  HALF WAY TREE

  It is late; the street quiet. A police car slows down in front of the gate.

  “Is me – Bob. I looking for Rita, for anybody.”

  The Babylon laughs and continues on down the road.

  *

  Back at Half Way Tree there is a young boy alone in the park. He plucks a pretend guitar and make-believe strings vibrate hunger. The frogs in the park hear. Bob hears it too; he walks toward the sound and sits next to the boy.

  “I thought you wasn’t coming back,” the boy says.

  A gush of wind and dust from a late truck stirs the brass Africas at Bob’s ears.

  “Jah send me back,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Seven days inna Babylon, that’s all I-man know.”

  Bob sees that the boy does not understand. He shifts closer and looks into his eyes.

  “Is me, Bob. Bob Marley.” But his words mean nothing to the youth. “I am about my father’s business.”

  “Don’t bother with that,” says the boy. He is too tired for joking. Tired of Fall-down and his nonsense. “Where you fly-go and come back now? Zion?”

  A bird in the branch above them closes its eyes. The park is still, even the gun-man in the corner asleep.

  “The right hand of my faadah,” says Bob.

  The boy sighs; puts away his guitar.

  “Shine mi shoes for me?” He reaches in Bob’s satchel and hands him the brush and shoe polish. “I like when you shine mi shoes.”

  The youth sits with his back against the tree, waiting; and Bob looks at the dented can, the little latch on the side that pops the lid open – the fumes from the polish so strong, it sends a tingle to the top of his head. He used to clean his grandfather, Omeriah’s shoes. He shined them nice-nice with a coconut brush and soft cloth, just like Omeriah taught him, for Omeriah said, even the dead should see them face in a shoes that shine right. And this is how Bob has worked all his life – burning midnight oil, tuning voice and word and chord, that even the long-dead higherstand themselves, clear-clear, when they hear his Rastaman chant.

  And so it is he shines the boy’s shoes with livication; the stiff brush bearing into man-made leather, kneading bone and sinew underneath – this moment everything. The clock on the tower is stuck at five past seven. A lizard stretches its body across the minute hand and the moon waxes to fullness over the park; the fall-down earrings go Af-rica/Af-rica.

  “You can see your face, youth?”

  “Yes, I see mi face,” the boy says. And he rests awhile, marvelling at Africa a ting-ting in brass.

  Afterwards, the boy pushes his legs in a crocus bag and curls up under the tree.

  “I want to sleep with my shoes on,” he says. He closes his eyes and pulls the crocus bag higher. “Tomorrow, remember tell me my true name.”

  Bob watches him sleep. He touches his cheek and wonders at a deep hunger even food cannot fill. There is a hole at the foot of the crocus bag; he covers it with leaves.

  Back at the clock, he collapses on the floor and sleeps a sleep in which a girl reads a book. She turns the pages like an ole-time hymnal and with each turning there is a faint nutmeg smell. “What yu reading?” he calls from the other side of the dream. “Is a book of mysteries,” she says, without looking up, “be careful – you are in it.”

  THE MARVELLOUS EQUATIONS OF THE DREAD

  LEENAH

  The Season of Expectance

  In her sleep Gran-win sometimes heard Hector’s feet on the pedal of his sewing machine, natty dread-oh. She heard him pause to thread his needle and then start again, always humming a tune of contentment. She kept the space he had occupied with his sewing empty, as if anticipating his return. Even after I was born, she swept and dusted the little corner, refusing to put – for not even a moment – as much as a chair in its place. For a part of her expected that one day Grandpa Hector might return just as mysterious as he had left.

  She made sweets, selling to school children – coconut drops, grater cake, gizzada and tamarind balls, and the one Hector had liked the best, busta. Every June 30, the date of Hector’s disappearance, she made a plate of sticky busta and put it in his corner. In the morning it would be nibbled down by a sweet-tooth rat or covered with sugar ants, a moth wing stuck to it. And always on that day, my mother, Vaughn, sat on the veranda reading a book, half-waiting for the brown fedora to appear above the red hibiscus and
the big smile on her Papa’s face as he entered the yard. He would say that he had journeyed to a far-off land and seen signs and wonders, and that now he had come to take her back with him.

  The season of expectance ended when Vaughn had a vision.

  SISTAH VAUGHN

  The Writing on the Wall

  For where there is no vision, the sistren perish. Yu see me? I&I is a self-taught woman. I never get much schooling, but I always love to read, and I could sew too. From I small, I never have much, but I learn to read from biscuit paper and sardine tin and from Papa’s papers on the wall. LOOK TO AFRICA FOR THE CROWNING OF A BLACK KING – those were the words I learned first; Papa’s red pencil-line underneath. When I was a child, no cow jump over the moon for me, no, only Africa and the Black Star Line, the ships to carry us. Years later, I recite that wall like a poem while I nurse Leenah. And give thanks to the Almighty for Mrs. Williams and her mildew and stink magazines full with wood louse. She was the post mistress, you know, but when she hear Miss-Winnie girl love to read, she give me the box and I find a Negro Chronicle and a June, 1931 National Geographic. I never know it then, but that little book Jah-send, for I turn the cover and find the black king in it, high and lifted up and sitting on his throne, making big news – the crown-nation of His Imperial Majesty, Haile Selassie I, Emperor of Ethiopia in living colour. From the Conquering Lion to the fish of Lake Tsana, I read that thing and take in every word. Soon as I get to the end of the crown-nation, I start again and is like the Africa drums beating and the men with the long bamboo pipes calling, just for I. I&I get to the middle page and I in deep now, for there’s a picture of an Ethiopian holding an ostrich egg (and Jah be my judge, she look just like Mama), the egg big like a movie obeah-ball in her hands. I look at that egg and ponder my future. And all the while Mama watching me from her corner eye – Papa and his everlasting sewing-sewing, and now my reading-reading. Is like she just waiting for something to happen: sky to drop, fire to catch, Papa to come. She think I reading, but I mining the egg.