then said i, woe is me! for i amundone; because i am a man of uncleanlips, and dwell in the midst of apeople of unclean lips; for mine eyeshave seen the king, the lord of hosts.
then i buckled up my shoes,and i startedhe knew, without knowing how it had happened, that he lay on the floor, in the dusty space beforethe altar which he and elisha had cleaned; and knew that above him burned the yellow light whichhe had himself switched on. dust was in his nostrils, sharp and terrible, and the feet of saints,shaking the floor beneath him, raised small clouds of dust that filmed his mouth. he heard theircries, so far, so high above him–he could never rise that far. he was like a rock, a dead man’sbody, a dying bird, fallen from an awful height; something that had no power of itself, any more,to turn.
and something moved in john’s body which was not john. he was invaded, set at naught,possessed. this power had struck john, in the head or in the heart; and, in a moment, wholly,filling him with an anguish that he could never in his life have imagined, that he surely could notendure, that even now he could not believe, had opened him up; had cracked him open, as woodbeneath the axe cracks down the middle, as rocks break up; had ripped him and felled him in amoment, so that john had not felt the wound, but only the agony, had not felt the fall, but only thefear; and lay here, now, helpless, screaming, at the very bottom of darkness.
he wanted to rise—a malicious, ironic voice insisted that he rise—and, at once, to leave histemple and go out into the world.
he wanted to obey the voice, which was the only voice that spoke to him; he tried to assurethe voice that he would do his best to rise; he would only lie here a moment, after his dreadful fall,and catch his breath. it was at this moment, precisely, that he found he could not rise; something had happened to his arms, his legs, his feet—ah, something had happened to john! and he began toscream again in his great, bewildered terror, and felt himself, indeed, begin to move—not upward,toward the light, but down again, a sickness in his bowels, a tightening in his loin-strings; he felthimself turning, again and again, across the dusty floor, as though god’s toe had touched himlightly. and the dust made him cough and retch; in his turning the centre of the whole earthshifted, making of space a sheer void and a mockery of order, and balance, and time. nothingremained: all was swallowed up in chaos. and: is this it? john’s terrified soul inquired—what isit?—to no purpose, receiving no answer. only the ironic voice insisted yet once more that he risefrom the filthy floor if he did not want to become like all the other niggers.
then he anguish subsided for a moment, as water withdraws briefly to dash itself oncemore against the rocks: he knew that it subsided only to return. and he coughed and sobbed in thedusty space before the altar, lying on his face. and still he was going down, farther and fartherfrom the joy, the singing, and the light above him.
he tried, but in such despair!—the utter darkness does not present any point of departure,contains no beginning, and no end—to rediscover, and, as it were, to trap and hold tightly in thepalm of his hand, the moment preceding his fall, his change. but that moment was also locked indarkness, was wordless, and should not come forth. he remembered only the cross: he had turnedagain to kneel at the altar, and had faced the golden cross. and the holy ghost was speaking—seeming to say, as john spelled out the so abruptly present and gigantic legend adorning the cross:
jesus saves. he had stared to this, an awful bitterness in his heart, wanting to curse—and the spiritspoke, and spoke in him. yes: there was elisha, speaking from the floor, and his father, silent, athis back. in his heart there was a sudden yearning tenderness for holy elisha; desire, sharp andawful as a reflecting knife, to usurp the body of elisha, and lie where elisha lay; to speak intongues, as elisha spoke, and, with that authority, to confound his father. yet this had not been themoment; it was as far back as he could go, but the secret, the turning, the abysmal drop was fartherback, in darkness. as he cursed his father, as he loved elisha, he had, even then, been weeping; hehad already passed his moment, was already under the power, had been struck, and was goingdownah, down!—and to what purpose, where? to the bottom of the sea, the bowels of the earth,to the heart of the fiery furnace? into a dungeon deeper than hell, into a madness louder than thegrave? what trumpet sound would awaken him, what hand would lift him up? for he knew, as hewas struck again, and screamed again, his throat like burning ashes, and as he turned again, hisbody hanging from him like a useless weight, a heavy, rotting carcass, that if he were not lifted hewould never rise.
his father, his mother, his aunt, elisha—all were far above him, waiting, watching historment in the pit. they hung over the golden barrier, singing behind them, light around theirheads, weeping, perhaps, for john, struck down so early. and, no, they could not help him anymore—nothing could help him any more. he struggled, struggle to rise up, and meet them—hewanted wings to fly upward and meet them in that morning, that morning where they were. but hisstruggles only thrust him downward, his cries did not go upward, but rang in his own skull.
yet, though he scarcely saw their faces, he knew that they were there. he felt them move,every movement causing a trembling, an astonishment, a horror in the heart of darkness where he lay. he could not know if they wished him to come to them as passionately as he wished to rise.
perhaps they did not help him because they did not care—because they did not love him.
then his father returned to him, in john’s changed and low condition; and john thought,but for a moment only, that his father had come to help him. in the silence, then, that filled thevoid, john looked on his father. his father’s face was black—like a sad, eternal night, yet in hisfather’s face there burned a fire—a fire eternal in an eternal night. john trembled where he lay,feeling no warmth from him from this fire, tremble, and could not take his eyes away. a wind blewover him, saying: ‘whosoever loveth and maketh a lie.’ only: ‘whosoever loveth and maketh alie.’ and he knew that he had been thrust out of the holy, the joyful, the blood-washed community,that his father had thrust him out. his father’s will was stronger than john’s own. his power wasgreater because he belonged to god. now, john felt no hatred, nothing, only a bitter, unbelievingdespair: all prophecies were true, salvation was finished, damnation was real!
then death is real, john’s soul said, and death will have his moment.
‘set thine house in order,’ said his father, ‘for thou shalt die and not live.’
and then the ironic voice spoke again, saying: ‘get up, john. get up, boy. don’t let himkeep you here. you got everything your daddy got.’
john tried to laugh—john thought that he was laughing—but found, instead, that his mouthwas filled with salt, his ears were full of burning water. whatever was happening in his distantbody now, he could not change or stop; his cheat heaved, his laugher rose and bubbled at hismouth, like blood.
and his father looked on him. his father’s eyes looked down on him, and john began toscream. his father’s eyes stripped him naked, and hated what they saw. and as he turned,screaming, in the dust again, trying to escape his father’s eyes, those eyes, that face, and all theirfaces, and the far-off yellow light, all departed from his vision as though he had gone blind. hewas going down again. there is, his soul cried out again, no bottom to the darkness!
he did not where he was. there was silence everywhere—only a perpetual, distant, fainttrembling far beneath him—the roaring perhaps, of the fires of hell, over which he was suspended,or the echo, persistent, invincible still, of the moving feet of the saints. he thought of themountain-top, where he longed to be, where the sun would cover him like a cloth of gold, wouldcover his head like a crown of fire, and in his hands he would hold a living rod. but this was nomountain where john lay, here, no robe, no crown. and the living rod was uplifted in other hands.
‘i’m going to beat sin out of him. i’m going to beat it out.’
yes, he had sinned, and his father was looking for him. now, john did not make a sound,and did not move at all, hoping that his father would pass him by.
‘leave him be. leave him alone. let him pray to the lord.’
‘yes, mama. i’m going to try to love the lord.’
‘he done run off somewhere. i’m going to find him. i’m going to beat it out.’
yes, he had sinned: one morning, alone, in the dirty bathroom, in the square, dirt-graycupboard room that was filled with the stink of his father. sometimes, leaning over the cracked, ‘tattle-tale gray’ bath-tub, he scrubbed his father’s back; and looked, as the accursed son of noahhad looked, on his father’s hideous nakedness. it was secret, like sin, and slimy, like the serpent,and heavy, like the rod. then he hated his father, and longed for the power to cut his father down.
was this why he lay here, thrust out from all human or heavenly help to-night? this, andnot the other, his deadly sin, having looked on his father’s nakedness and mocked and cursed himin his heart? ah, that son of noah’s had been cursed, down to the present groaning generation: aservant of servants shall be unto his brethren.
then the ironic voice, terrified, it seemed, of no depth, no darkness, demanded of john,scornfully, if he believed that he was cursed. all niggers had been cursed, the ironic voicereminded him, all niggers had come from this most undutiful of noah’s sons. how could john becursed for having seen in a bath-tub what another man—if that other man had ever lived—had seenten thousand years ago, lying in an open tent? could a curse come down so many ages? did it livein time, or in the moment? but john found no answer for this voice, for he was in the moment, andout of time.
and his father approached. ‘i’m going to beat sin out of him. i’m going to beat it out.’ allthe darkness rocked and wailed as his father’s feet came closer; feet whose tread resounded likegod’s tread in the garden of eden, searching the covered adam and eve. then his father stood justabove him, looking down. then john knew that a curse was renewed from moment to moment,from father to son. time was indifferent, like snow and ice; but the heart, crazed wanderer in thedriving waste, carried the curse for ever.
‘john,’ said his father, ‘come with me.’
then they were in a straight street, a narrow, narrow way. they had been walking for manydays. the street stretched before them, long, and silent, going down, and whiter than the snow.
there was no one on the street, and john was frightened. the buildings on this street, so near thatjohn could touch them on either side, were narrow, also, rising like spears into the sky, and theywere made of beaten gold and silver. john knew that these buildings were not for him—not to-day—no, nor to-morrow, either! then, coming up this straight and silent street, he saw a woman, veryold and black, coming toward them, staggering on the crooked stones. she was drunk, and dirty,and very old, and her mouth was bigger than his mother’s mouth, or his own; her mouth was looseand wet, and he had never seen anyone so black. his father was astonished to see her, and besidehimself with anger; but john was glad. he clapped his hands, and cried:
‘see! she’s uglier than mama! she’s uglier than me!’
‘you mighty proud, ain’t you,’ his father said, ‘to be the devil’s son?’
but john did no listen to his father. he turned to watch the woman pass. his father grabbedhis arm.
“you see that? that’s sin. that’s what the devil’s son runs after.’
‘whose son are you?’ john asked.
his father slapped him. john laughed, and moved a little away.
‘i seen it. i seen it. i ain’t the devil’s son for nothing.’
his father reached for him, but john was faster. he moved backward down the shiningstreet, looking at his father—his father who moved toward him, one hand outstretched in fury.
‘and i heard you—all the night-time long. i know what you do in the dark, black man,when you think the devil’s son’s asleep. i heard you, spitting, and groaning, and choking—and iseen you, riding up and down, and going in and out. i ain’t the devil’s son for nothing.’
the listening buildings, rising upward yet, leaned, closing out the sky. john’s feet began toslip; tears and sweat were in his eyes; still moving backward before his father, he looked about himfor deliverance; but there was no deliverance in this street for him.
‘and i hate you. i hate you. i don’t care about your golden crown. i don’t care about yourlong white robe. i seen you under the robe, i seen you!’
then his father was upon him; at his touch there was singing, and fire. john lay on his backin the narrow street, looking up at his father, that burning face beneath the burning towers.
‘i’m going to beat it out of you. i’m going to beat it out.’
his father raised his hand. the knife came down. john rolled away, down the white,descending street, screaming:
father! father!
these were the first words he uttered. in a moment there was silence, and his father wasgone. again, he felt the saints above him—and dust in his mouth. there was singing somewhere;faraway,abovehim;singingslowandmourn(was) ful. he lay silent, racked beyondendurance, salt drying on his face, with nothing in him any more, no lust, no fear, no shame, nohope. and yet he knew that it would come again—the darkness was full of demons crouching,waiting to worry him with their teeth again.
then i looked in the grave and i wondered.
ah, down!—what was he searching here, all alone in darkness? but now he knew, for ironyhad left him, that he was searching something, hidden in the darkness, that must be found. hewould die if it was not found; or, he was dead already, and would never again be joined to theliving, if it was not found.
and the grave looked so sad and lonesome.
in the grave where he now wandered—he knew it was the grave, it was so cold and silent,and he moved in icy mist—he found his mother and his father, his mother dressed in scarlet, hisfather dressed in white. they did not see him: they looked backward, over their shoulders, at acloud of witnesses. and there was his aunt florence, gold and silver flashing on her fingers,brazen ear-rings dangling from her ears; and there was another woman, whom he took to be thatwife of his father’s, called deborah—who had, as he had once believed, so much to tell him. butshe, alone, of all that company, looked at him and signified that there was no speech in the grave.
he was a stranger there—they did not see him pass, they did not know what he was looking for,they could not help him search. he wanted to find elisha, who knew, perhaps, who would help him—but elisha was not there. there was roy: roy also might have helped him, but he had beenstabbed with a knife, and lay now, brown and silent, at his father’s feet.
then there began to flood john’s soul the waters of despair. love is as strong as death, asdeep as the grave. but love, which had, perhaps, like a benevolent monarch, swelled thepopulation of his neighboring kingdom, death, had not himself descended: they owed him noallegiance here. here there was no speech or language, and there was no love; no one to say: youare beautiful, john; no one to forgive him, no matter what his sin; no one to heal him, and lift himup. no one: father and mother looked backward, roy was bloody, elisha was not here.
then the darkness began to murmur—a terrible sound—and john’s ears trembled. in thismurmur that filled the grave, like a thousand wings beating on the air, he recognized a sound thathe had always heard. he began, for terror, to weep and moan—and this sound was swallowed up,and yet was magnified by the echoes that filled the darkness.
this sound had filled john’s life, so it now seemed, from the moment he had first drawnbreath. he had heard it everywhere, in prayer and in daily speech, and wherever the saints weregathered, and in the unbelieving streets. it was in his father’s anger, and in his mother’s calminsistence, and in the vehement mockery of his aunt; it had rung, so oddly, in roy’s voice thisafternoon, and when elisha played the piano it was there; it was in the beat and jangle of sistermccandless’s tambourine, it was in the very cadence of her testimony, and invested that testimonywith a matchless, unimpeachable authority. yes, he had heard it all his life, but it was only nowthat his ears were open to this sound that came from darkness, that could only come from darkness,that yet bore such sure witness to the glory of the light. and now in this moaning, and so far fromany help, he heard it in himself—it rose from his bleeding, his cracked open heart. it was a soundof rage and weeping which filled the grave, rage and weeping from time set free, but bound now ineternity; rage that had no language, weeping with no voice—which yet spoke now, to john’sstartled soul, of boundless melancholy, of the bitterest patience, and the longest night; of thedeepest water, the strongest chains, the most cruel lash; of humility most wretched, the dungeonmost absolute, of love’s bed defiled, and birth dishonored, and most bloody, unspeakable, suddendeath. yes, the darkness hummed with murder: the body in the water, the body in the fire, the bodyon the tree. john looked down the line of these armies of darkness, army upon army, and his soulwhispered: who are these? who are they? and wondered: where shall i go?
there was no answer. there was no help or healing in the grave, no answer in the darkness,no speech from all that company. they looked backward. and john looked back, seeing nodeliverance.
i, john saw the future, way up in the middle of the air.
were the lash, the dungeon, and the night for him? and the sea for him? and the grave forhim?
i, john saw a number, way in the middle of the air.
and he struggled to flee—out of this darkness, out of this company—into the land of theliving, so high, so far away. fear was upon him, a more deadly fear than he had ever known, as heturned and turned in the darkness, as he moaned, and stumbled, and crawled through darkness,finding no hand, no voice, finding no door. who are these? who are they? they were the despisedand rejected, the wretched and the spat upon, the earth’s offscouring; and he was in their company,and they would swallow up his soul. the stripes they had endured would scar his back, their punishment would be his, their portion his, his their humiliation, anguish, chains, their dungeonhis, their death his. thrice was i beaten with rods, once i was stoned, thrice i suffered shipwreck, anight and a day i have been in the deep.
and their dread testimony would be his!
in journeying often, in perils of waters, inn perils of robbers, in perils by mine owncountrymen, in perils by the heathen, in perils in the city, in perils in the wilderness, in perils inthe sea, in perils among false brethren.
and their desolation, his:
in weariness and painfulness, in watching often, in hunger and thirst, in fasting often, incold and nakedness.
and he began to shout for help, seeing before him the lash, the fire, and the depthlesswater, seeing his head bowed down for ever, he, john, the lowest among these lowly. and helooked for his mother, but her eyes were fixed on this dark army—she was claimed by this army.
and his father would not help him, his father did not see him, and roy lay dead.
then he whispered, not knowing that he whispered: ‘oh, lord, have mercy on me. havemercy on me.’
and a voice, for the first time in all his terrible journey, spoke to john, through he rage andweeping, and fire, and darkness, and flood:
‘yes,’ said the voice, ‘go through. go through.’
‘lift me up,’ whispered john, ‘lift me up. i can’t go through.’
‘go through,’ said the voice, ‘go through.’
then there was silence. the murmuring ceased. there was only this trebling beneath him.
and he knew there was a light somewhere.
‘go through.’
‘ask him to take you through.’
but he could never go through this darkness, through this fire and this wrath. he nevercould go through. his strength was finished, and he could not move. he belonged to the darkness—the darkness from which he had thought to flee had claimed him. and he moaned again,weeping, and lifted up his hands.
‘call on him. call on him.’
‘ask him to take you through.’
dust rose again in his nostrils, sharp as the fumes of hell. and he turned again in thedarkness, trying to remember something he had heard, something he had read.
jesus saves.
and he saw before him the fire, red and gold, and waiting for him—yellow, and red, andgold, and burning in a night eternal, and waiting for him. he must go through this fire, and into thisnight.
jesus saves.
call on him.
ask him to take you through.
he could not call, for his tongue would not unlock, and his heart was silent, and great withfear. in the darkness, how to move?—with death’s ten thousand jaws agape, and waiting in thedarkness. on any turning whatsoever the beast may spring—to move in the darkness is to moveinto the moving jaws of death. and yet, it came to him that he must move; for there was a lightsomewhere, and life, and joy, and singing—somewhere, somewhere above him.
and he moaned again: ‘oh, lord, have mercy. have mercy, lord.’
there came to him again the communion service at which elisha had knelt at his father’sfeet. now this service was in a great, high room, a room made golden by the light of the sun; andthe room was filled with a multitude of people, all in long, white robes, the women with coveredheads. they sat at a long, bare, wooden table. they broke at this table flat, unsalted bread, whichwas the body of the lord, and drank from a heavy silver cup the scarlet wine of his blood. then hesaw that they were barefoot, and that their feet were stained with this same blood. and a sound ofweeping filled the room as they broke the bread and drank the wine.
then they rose, to come together over a great basin filled with water. and they divided intofour groups, two of women, and man before man, to watch each other’s feet. but the blood wouldnot wash off; many washings only turned the crystal water red; and someone cried: ‘have youbeen to the river?’
then john saw the river, and the multitude was there. and now they had undergone achange; their robes were ragged, and stained with the road they had traveled, and stained withunholy blood; the robes of some barely covered their nakedness; and some indeed were naked.
and some stumbled on the smooth stones at the river’s edge, for they were blind; and somecrawled with a terrible wailing, for they were lame; some did not cease to pluck at their flesh,which was rotten with running sores. all struggled to get to the river, in a dreadful hardness ofheart: the strong struck down the weak, the ragged spat on the naked, the naked cursed the blind,the blind crawled over the lame. and someone cried: ‘sinner, do you love my lord?’
then john saw the lord—for a moment only; and the darkness, for a moment only, wasfilled with a light he could not bear. then, in a moment, he was set free; his tears sprang as from afountain; his heart, like a fountain of waters, burst. then he cried: ‘oh, blessed jesus! oh, lordjesus! take me through!’
of tears there was, yes, a very fountain—springing from a depth never sounded before,from depths john had not known were in him. and he wanted to rise up, singing, singing in thatgreat morning, the morning of his new life. ah, how his tears ran down, how they blessed his soul!
—as he felt himself, out of the darkness, and the fire, and the terrors of death, rising upward tomeet the saints ‘oh, yes!’ cried the voice of elisha. ‘bless our god for ever!’
and a sweetness filled john as he heard this voice, and heard the sound of singing: thesinging was for him. for his drifting soul was anchored in the love of god; in the rock that enduredfor ever. the light and the darkness had kissed each other, and were married now, for ever, in thelife and the vision of john’s soul.
i, john, saw a city, way in the middle of the air,waiting, waiting, waiting up there.
he opened his eyes on the morning, and found them, in the light of the morning, rejoicingfor him. the trembling he had known in darkness had been the echo of their joyful feet—thesefeet, bloodstained for ever, and washed in many rivers—they moved on the bloody road for ever,with no continuing city, but seeking one to come: a city out of time, not made with hands, buteternal in the heavens. no power could hold this army back, no water disperse them, no fireconsume them. one day they would compel the earth to heave upward, and surrender the waitingdead. they sang, where the darkness gathered, where the lion waited, where the fire cried, andwhere blood ran down:
my soul, don’t you be uneasy!
they wandered in the valley for ever; and they smote the rock, for ever; and the waterssprang, perpetually, in the perpetual desert. they cried unto the lord for ever, and lifted up theireyes for ever, they were cast down for ever, and he lifted them up for ever. no, the fire could nothurt them, and yes, the lion’s jaws were stopped; the serpent was not their master, the grave wasnot their resting-place, the earth was not their home. job bore them witness, and abraham wastheir father, moses had elected to suffer with them rather that glory in sin for a season. shadrach,meshach, and abednego had gone before them into the fire, their grief had been sung by david,and jeremiah had wept for them. ezekiel had prophesied upon them, these scattered bones, theseslain, and, in the fullness of time, the prophet, john, had come out of the wilderness, crying that thepromise was for them. they were encompassed with a very cloud of witnesses: judas, who hadbetrayed the lord; thomas, who had doubted him; peter, who had trembled at the crowing of acock; stephen, who had been stoned; paul, who had been bound; the blind man crying in the dustyroad, the dead man rising from the grave. and they looked unto jesus, the author and the finisherof their faith, running with patience the race he had set before them; they endured the cross, andthey despised the shame, and waited to join him, one day, in glory, at the right hand of the father.
my soul! don’t you be uneasy!
jesus going to make up my dying bed!
‘rise up, rise up, brother johnny, and talk about the lord’s deliverance.’
it was elisha who had spoken; he stood just above john, smiling; and behind him were thesaints—praying mother washington, and sister mccandless, and sister price. behind these, hesaw his mother, and his aunt; his father, for the moment, was hidden from his view.
‘amen!’ cried sister mccandless, ‘rise up, and praise the lord!’
he tried to speak, and could not, for the joy that rang in him this morning. he smiled up toelisha, and his tears ran down; and sister mccandless began to sing:
‘lord, i ain’tno stranger now!
‘rise up, johnny,’ said elisha, again. ‘are you saved, boy?’
‘yes,’ said john, ‘oh, yes!’ and the words came upward, it seemed, of themselves, in thenew voice god had given him. elisha stretched out his hand, and john took the hand, and stood—so suddenly, and so strangely, and with such wonder!—once more on his feet.
‘lord, i ain’tno stranger now!’
yes, the night had passed, the powers of darkness had been beaten back. he moved amongthe saints, he, john, who had come home, who was one of their company now; weeping, he yetcould find no words to speak of his great gladness; and he scarcely knew how he moved, for hishands were new, and his feet were new, and he moved in a new and heaven-bright air. prayingmother washington took him in her arms, and kissed him, and their tears, his tears and the tears ofthe old, black woman, mingled.
‘god bless you, son. run on, honey, and don’t get weary!’
‘lord, i been introduced,to the father and the son,and i ain’tno stranger now!’
yes, as he moved among them, their hands touching, and tears falling, and the music rising—as though he moved down a great hall, full of a splendid company—something began to knockin that listening, astonished, newborn, and fragile heart of his; something recalling the terrors ofthe night, which were not finished, his heart seemed to say; which, in this company, were now tobegin. and, while his heart was speaking, he found himself before his mother. her face was full oftears, and for a long while they looked at each other, saying nothing. and once again, he tried toread the mystery of that face—which, as it had never before been so bright and pained with love,had never seemed before so far from him, so wholly in communion with a life beyond his life. he wanted to comfort her, but the night had given him no language, no second sight, no power to seeinto the heart of any other. he knew only—and now, looking at his mother, he knew that he couldnever tell it—that the heart was a fearful place. she kissed him, and she said: ‘i’m mighty proud,johnny. you keep the faith. i’m going to be praying for you till the lord puts me in my grave.’
then he stood before his father. in the moment that he forced himself to raise his eyes andlook into his father’s face, he felt in himself a stiffening, and a panic and a blind rebellion, and ahope for peace. the tears still on his face, and smiling still, he said: ‘praise the lord.’
‘praise the lord,’ said his father. he did not move to touch him, did not kiss him, did notsmile. they stood before each other in silence, while the saints rejoiced; and john struggled tospeak the authoritative, the living word that would conquer the great division between his fatherand himself. but it did not come, the living word; in the silence something died in john, andsomething came alive. it came to him that he must testify: his tongue only could bear witness tothe wonders he had seen. and he remembered, suddenly, the text of a sermon he had once heardhis father preach. and he opened his mouth, feeling, as he watched his father, the darkness roarbehind him, and the very earth beneath him seem to shake; yet he gave to his father their commontestimony. ‘i’m saved,’ he said, ‘and i know i’m saved.’ and then, as his father did not speak, herepeated his father’s text: ‘my witness is in heaven and my record is on high.’
‘it come from your mouth,’ said his father then. ‘i want to see you live it. it’s more than anotion,’
‘i’m going to pray god,’ said john—and his voice shook, whether with joy or grief hecould not say—‘to keep me, and make me strong … to stand … to stand against the enemy … andagainst everything and everybody … that wants to cut down my soul.’
then his tears came down again, like a wall between him and his father. his aunt florencecame and took him in her arms. her eyes were dry, and her face was old in the savage, morninglight. but her voice, when she spoke, was gentler that he had ever known it to be before.
‘you fight the good fight,’ she said, ‘you hear? don’t you get weary, and don’t you getscared. because i know the lord’s done laid his hands on you.’
‘yes,’ he said, weeping, ‘yes. i’m going to serve the lord.’
‘amen!’ cried elisha. ‘bless our god!’
the filthy streets rang with the early-morning light as they came out of the temple.
they were all there, save young ella mae, who had departed while john was still on thefloor—she had a bad cold, said praying mother washington, and needed to have her rest. now, inthree groups, they walked the long, gray, silent avenue: praying mother washington withelizabeth and sister mccandless and sister price, and before them gabriel and florence, andelisha and john ahead.
‘you know, the lord is a wonder,’ said the praying mother. ‘don’t you know, all this weekhe just burdened my soul, and kept me a-praying and a-weeping before him? look like i justcouldn’t get no ease nohow—and i know he had me a-tarrying for that boy’s soul.’
‘well, amen,’ said sister price. ‘look like the lord just wanted this church to rock. youremember how he spoke through sister mccandless friday night, and told us to pray, and he’dwork a mighty wonder in our midst? and he done moved—hallelujah—he done troubledeverybody’s mind.’
‘i just tell you,’ said sister mccandless, ‘all you got to do is listen to the lord; he’ll leadyou right every time; he’ll move every time. can’t nobody tell me my god ain’t real.’
‘and you see the way the lord worked with young elisha there?’ said praying motherwashington, with a calm, sweet smile. ‘had that boy down there on the floor a-prophesying intongues, amen, just the very minute before johnny fell out a-screaming, and a-crying before thelord. look like the lord was using elisha to say: “it’s time, boy, come on home.” ’
‘well, he is a wonder,’ said sister price. ‘and johnny’s got two brothers now.’
elizabeth said nothing. she walked with her head bowed, hands clasped lightly before her.
sister price turned tom look at her, and smiled.
‘i know,’ she said, ‘you’s a mighty happy woman this morning.’
elizabeth smiled and raised her head, but did not look directly at sister price. she lookedahead, down the long avenue, where gabriel walked with florence, where john walked withelisha.
‘yes,’ she said, at last. ‘i began praying. and i ain’t sopped praying yet.’
‘yes, lord,’ said sister price, ‘can’t none of us stop praying till we see his blessed face.’
‘but i bet you didn’t never think,’ said sister mccandless, with a laugh, ‘that little johnnywas going to jump up so soon, and get religion. bless our god!’
‘the lord is going to bless that boy, you mark my words,’ said praying motherwashington.
‘shake hands with the preacher, johnny.’
‘got a man in the bible, son, who liked music, too. and he got to dancing one day beforethe lord. you reckon you going to dance before the lord one of these days?’
‘yes, lord,’ said sister price, ‘the lord done raised you up a holy son. he going to comfortyour grey hairs.’
elizabeth found that her tears were falling, slowly, bitterly, in the morning light. ‘i pray thelord,’ she said, ‘to bear him up on every side.’
‘yes,’ said sister mccandless, gravely, ‘it’s more than a notion. the devil rises on everyhand.’
then, in silence, they came to the wide crossing where the tramline ran. a lean cat stalkedthe gutter and fled as they approached; turned to watch them, with yellow, malevolent eyes, fromthe ambush of a dustbin. a gray bird flew above them, above the electric wires for the tram line,and perched on the metal cornice of a roof. then, far down the avenue, they heard a siren, and the clanging of a bell, and looked up to see the ambulance speed past them on the way to the hospitalthat was near the church.
‘another soul struck down,’ murmured sister mccandless. ‘lord have mercy.’
‘he said in the last days evil would abound,’ said sister price.
‘well, yes, he did say it,’ said praying mother washington, ‘and i’m so glad he told us hewouldn’t leave us comfortless.’
‘’when ye see all these things, know that your salvation is at hand,’ said sistermccandless. ‘a thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand—but it ain’tgoing to come nigh thee. so glad, amen, this morning, bless my redeemer.’
‘you remember that day when you come into the store?’
‘i didn’t think you never looked at me.’
‘well—you was mighty pretty.’
‘didn’t little johnny never say nothing,’ asked praying mother washington, ‘to make youthink the lord was working in his heart?’
‘he always kind of quiet,’ said elizabeth. ‘he don’t say much.’
‘no,’ said sister mccandless, ‘he ain’t like all these rough young one nowadays—he gotsome respect for his elders. you done raised him mighty well, sister grimes.’
‘it was his birthday yesterday,’ elizabeth said.
‘no!’ cried sister price. ‘how old he got to be yesterday?’
‘he done made fourteen,’ she said.
‘you hear that?’ said sister price, with wonder. ‘the lord done saved that boy’s soul onhis birthday!’
‘well, he got two birthdays now,’ smiled sister mccandless, ‘just like he got two brothers—one in the flesh, and one in the spirit.’
‘amen, bless the lord!’ cried praying mother washington.
‘what book was it, richard?’
‘oh, i don’t remember. just a book.’
‘you smiled.’
‘you was mighty pretty.’
she took her sodden handkerchief out of her bag, and dried her eyes; and dried her eyesagain, looking down the avenue.
‘yes,’ said sister price, gently, ‘you just thank the lord. you just let the tears fall. i knowyour heart is full this morning.’
‘the lord’s done give you,’ said praying mother washington, ‘a mighty blessing—andwhat the lord gives, can’t no man take away.’
‘i open,’ said sister mccandless, ‘and no man can shut. i shut, and no man can open.’
‘amen,’ said sister price. ‘amen.’
‘well, i reckon,’ florence said, ‘your soul is praising god this morning.’
he looked straight ahead, saying nothing, holding his body more rigid than an arrow‘you always been saying,’ florence said, ‘how the lord would answer your prayer.’ andshe looked sideways at him, with a little smile.
‘he going to learn,’ he said at last, ‘that it ain’t all in the singing and the shouting—the wayof holiness is a hard way. he got the steep side of the mountain to climb.’
‘but he got you there,’ she said, ‘ain’t he to help him when he stumbles, and to be a goodexample?’
‘i’m going to see to it,’ he said, ‘that he walks right before the lord. the lord’s done puthis soul in my charge—and i ain’t going to have that boy’s blood on my hands.’
‘no,’ she said, mildly, ‘i reckon you don’t want that.’
then they heard the siren, and the headlong, warning bell. she watched his face as helooked outward at the silent avenue and at the ambulance that raced to carry someone to healing,or to death.
‘yes,’ she said, ‘that wagon’s coming, ain’t, one day for everybody?’
‘i pray,’ he said, ‘it finds you ready, sister.’
‘is it going to find you ready?’ she asked.
‘i know my name is written in the book of life,’ he said. ‘i know i’m going to look on mysavior’s face in glory.’
‘yes,’ she said, slowly, ‘we’s all going to be together there. mama, and you, and me, anddeborah—and what was the name of that little girl who died not long after i left home?’
‘what little girl who died?’ he asked. ‘a lot of folks died after you left home—you leftyour mother on her dying bed.’
‘this girl was a mother, too,’ she said. ‘look like she went north all by herself, and had herbaby, and died—weren’t nobody to help her. deborah wrote me about it. sure, you ain’t forgottenthat girl’s name, gabriel!’
then his step faltered—seemed, for a moment, to drag. and he looked at her. she smiled,and lightly touched his arm.
‘you ain’t forgotten her name,’ she said. ‘you can’t tell me you done forgot her name. isyou going to look on her face, too? is her name written in the book of life?’
in utter silence they walked together, her hand still under his trembling arm.
‘deborah didn’t never write,’ she at last pursued, ‘about what happened to the baby. didyou ever see him? you going to meet him in heaven, too?’
‘the word tell us,’ he said, ‘to let the dead bury the dead. why you want to go rummagingaround back there, digging up things what’s all forgotten now? the lord, he knows my life—hedone forgive me a long time ago.’
‘look like,’ she said, ‘you think the lord’s a man like you; you think you can fool himlike you fool men, and you think he forgets, like men. but god don’t forget nothing, gabriel—ifyour name’s down there in the book, like you say, it’s got all what you done right down there withit. and you going to answer for it, too.’
‘i done answered,’ he said, ‘already before my god. i ain’t got to answer now, in front ofyou.’
she opened her handbag, and took out the letter.
‘i been carrying this letter now,’ she said, ‘for more than thirty years. and i beenwondering all that time if i’d ever talk to you about it.’
and she looked at him. he was looking, unwillingly, at the letter, which she held tightly inone hand. it was old, and dirty, and brown, and torn; he recognized deborah’s uncertain, tremblinghand, and he could see her again in the cabin, bending over the table, laboriously trusting to paperthe bitterness she had not spoken. it had lived in her silence, then, all those years? he could notbelieve it. she had been praying for him as she died—she had sworn to meet him in glory. andyet, this letter, her witness, spoke, breaking her long silence, now that she was beyond his reach forever.
‘yes,’ said florence, watching his face, ‘you didn’t give her no bed of roses to sleep on, didyou?—poor, simple, ugly, black girl. and you didn’t treat that other one no better. who is youmet, gabriel, all your holy life long, you ain’t made to drink a cup of sorrow? and you doing itstill—you going to be doing it till the lord puts you in you grave.’
‘god’s way,’ he said, and his speech was thick, his face was slick with sweat, ‘ain’t man’sway. i been doing the will of the lord, and can’t nobody sit in judgment on me but the lord. thelord called me out, he chose me, and i been running with him ever since i made a start. you can’tkeep your eyes on all this foolishness here below, all this wickedness here below—you got to liftup your eyes to the hills and run from the destruction falling on the earth, you got to put your handin jesus’ hand, and go where he says go.’
‘and if you been but a stumbling-stone here below?’ she said. ‘if you done caused soulsright and left to stumble and fall, and lose their happiness, and lose their souls? what then,prophet? what then, the lord’s anointed? ain’t no reckoning going to be called of you? what yougoing to say when the wagon comes?’
he lifted up his head, and she saw tears mingled with his sweat. ‘the lord,’ he said, ‘hesees the heart—he sees the heart.’
‘yes,’ she said, ‘but i done read the bible, too, and it tells me you going to know the treeby its fruit. what fruit i seen from you if it ain’t been just sin and sorrow and shame?’
‘you be careful,’ he said, ‘how you talk to the lord’s anointed. ’cause my life ain’t in thatletter—you don’t know my life.’
‘where is your life, gabriel?’ she asked, after a despairing pause. ‘where is it? ain’t it alldone gone for nothing? where’s your branches? where’s your fruit?’
he said nothing; insistently, she tapped the letter with her thumbnail. they wereapproaching the corner where she must leave him, turning westward to take her undergroundhome. in the light that filled the streets, the light that the sun was now beginning to corrupt withfire, she watched john and elisha just before them, john’ listening head bent, elisha’s arm abouthis shoulder.
‘i got a son,’ he said at last, ‘and the lord’s going to rise him up. i know—the lord haspromised—his word is true.’
and then she laughed. ‘that son,’ she said, ‘that roy. you going to weep for many aeternity before you see him crying in front of the altar like johnny was crying to-night.’
‘god sees the heart,’ he repeated, ‘he sees the heart.’
‘well, he ought to see it,’ she cried, ‘he made it! but don’t nobody else se it, not evenyour own self! let god see it—he sees it all right, and he don’t say nothing.’
‘he speaks,’ he said, ‘he speaks. all you got to do is listen.’
‘i been listening many a night-time long,’ said florence, then, ‘and he ain’t never spoke tome.’
‘he ain’t never spoke,’ said gabriel, ‘because you ain’t never wanted to hear. you justwanted him to tell you your way was right. and that ain’t no way to wait on god.’
‘then tell me,’ said florence, ‘what he done said to you—that you didn’t want to hear?’
and there was silence again. now they both watched john and elisha.
‘i going to tell you something, gabriel,’ she said. ‘i know you thinking at the bottom ofyour heart that if you make her, her and her bastard boy, pay enough for her sin, your son won’thave to pay for yours. but i ain’t going to let you do that. you done made enough folks pay for sin,it’s time you started paying.’
‘what you think,’ he asked, ‘you going to be able to do—against me?’
‘maybe,’ she said, ‘i ain’t long for this world, but i got this letter, and i’m sure going togive it to elizabeth before i go, and if she don’t want it, i’m going to find some way—some way, idon’t know how—to rise up and tell it, tell everybody, about the blood the lord’s anointed id goton his hands.’
‘i done told you,’ he said, ‘that’s all done and finished; the lord done give me a sign tomake me know i been forgiven. what good you think it’s going to do to start talking about itnow?’
‘it’ll make elizabeth to know,’ she said, ‘that she ain’t the only sinner … in your holyhouse. and little johnny, there—he’ll know he ain’t the only bastard.’
then he turned again, and looked at her with hatred in his eyes.
‘you ain’t never changed,’ he said. ‘you still waiting to see my downfall. you just aswicked now as you was when you was young.’
she put the letter in her bag again.
‘no,’ she said, ‘i ain’t changed. you ain’t changed neither. you still promising the lordyou going to do better—and you think whatever you done already, whatever you doing right at thatminute, don’t count. of all the men i ever knew, you’s the man who ought to be hoping the bible’sall a lie—’cause if that trumpet ever sounds, you going to spend eternity talking.’
they had reached her corner. she stopped, and he stopped with her, and she stared into hishaggard, burning face.
‘i got to take my underground,’ she said. ‘you got anything you want to say to me?’
‘i been living a long time,’ he said, ‘and i ain’t never seen nothing but evil overtake theenemies of the lord. you think you going to use that letter to hurt me—but the lord ain’t going tolet it come to pass. you going to be cut down.’
the praying women approached them, elizabeth in the middle.
‘deborah,’ florence said, ‘was cut down—but she left word. she weren’t no enemy ofnobody—and she didn’t see nothing but evil. when i go, brother, you better tremble, ’cause i ain’tgoing to go in silence.’
and, while they stared at each other, saying nothing more, the praying women were uponthem.
now the long, the silent avenue stretched before them like some gray country of the dead. itscarcely seemed that he had walked this avenue only (as time was reckoned up by men) some fewhours ago; that he had known this avenue since his eyes had opened on the dangerous world; thathe had played here, wept here, fled, fallen down, and been bruised here—in that time, so farbehind him, of his innocence and anger.
yes, on the evening of the seventh day, when, raging, he had walked out of his father’shouse, this avenue had been filled with shouting people. the light of the day had begun to fail—the wind was high, and the tall lights, one by one, and then all together, had lifted up their headsagainst the darkness—while he hurried to the temple. had he been mocked, had anyone spoken, orlaughed, or called? he could not remember. he had been walking in a storm.
now the storm was over. and the avenue, like any landscape that has endured a storm, laychanged under heaven, exhausted and clean, and new. not again, for ever, could it return to theavenue it once had been. fire, or lightening, or the latter rain, coming down from these skies whichmoved with such pale secrecy above him now, had laid yesterday’s avenue waste, had changed itin a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, as all would be changed on the last day, when the skieswould open up once more to gather up the saints.
yet the houses were there, as they had been; the windows, like a thousand, blinded eyes,stared outward at the morning—at the morning that was the same for them as the mornings ofjohn’s innocence, and the mornings before his birth. the water run in the gutters with a small,discontented sound; on the water traveled paper, burnt matches, sodden cigarette-ends; gobs ofspittle, green-yellow, brown, and pearly; the leaving of a dog, the vomit of a drunken man, thedead sperm, trapped in rubber, of one abandoned to his lust. all moved slowly to the black gratingwhere down it rushed, to be carried to the river, which would hurl it into the sea.
where houses were, where windows stared, where gutters ran, were people—sleeping now,invisible, private, in the heavy darkness of these houses, while the lord’s day broke outside. whenjohn should walk these streets again, they would be shouting here again; the roar of children’sroller skates would bear down on him from behind; little girls in pigtails, skipping rope, wouldestablish on the pavement a barricade through which he must stumble as best he might. boyswould be throwing ball in these streets again—they would look at him, and call:
‘hey, frog-eyes!’
men would be standing on corners again, watching him pass, girls would be sitting onstoops again, mocking his walk. grandmothers would stare out of windows, saying:
‘that sure is a sorry little boy.’
he would weep again, his heart insisted, for now his weeping had begun; he would rageagain, said the shifting air, for the lions of rage had been unloosed; he would be in darkness again,in fire again, now that he had seen the fire and the darkness. he was free—whom the son sets freeis free indeed—he had only to stand fast in his liberty. he was in battle no longer, this unfoldinglord’s day, with this avenue, these houses, the sleeping, staring, shouting people, but had enteredinto battle with jacob’s angel, with the princes and the powers of the air. and he was filled with ajoy, a joy unspeakable, whose roots, though he would not trace then on this new day of his life,were nourished by the wellspring of a despair not yet discovered. the joy of the lord is thestrength of his people. where joy was, there strength followed; where strength was, sorrow came—for ever? for ever and for ever, said the arm of elisha, heavy on his shoulder. and john tried tosee through the morning wall, to stare past the bitter houses, to tear the thousand gray veils of thesky away, and look into that heart—the monstrous heart which beat for ever, turning the astoundeduniverse, commanding the stars to flee away before the sun’s red sandal, bidding the moon to waxand wane, and disappear, and come again; with a silver net holding back the sea, and out ofmysteries abysmal, re-creating, each day, the earth. that heart, that breath, without which was notanything made which was made. tears came into his eyes again, making the avenue shiver,causing the houses to shake—his heart swelled, lifted up, faltered, and was dumb. out of joystrength came, strength that was fashioned to bear sorrow; sorrow brought forth joy. for ever? thiswas ezekiel’s wheel, in the middle of the burning air for ever—and the little wheel ran by faith,and the big wheel ran by the grace of god.
‘elisha?’ he said.
‘if you ask him to bear you up,’ said elisha, as though he had read his thoughts, ‘he won’tnever let you fall.’
‘it was you,’ he said, ‘wasn’t it, who prayed me through?’
‘we was all praying, little brother,’ said elisha, with a smile, ‘but yes, i was right over youthe whole time. look like the lord had put you like a burden on my soul.’
‘was i praying long?’ he asked.
elisha laughed. ‘well, you started praying when it was night and you ain’t stopped prayingtill it was morning. that’s a right smart time, it seems to me.’
john smiled, too, observing with some wonder that a saint of god could laugh.
‘was you glad,’ he asked, ‘to see me at the altar?’
then he wondered why he had asked this, and hoped elisha would no think him foolish.
‘i was mighty glad,’ said elisha soberly, ‘to see little johnny lay his sins on the altar, layhis life on the altar and rise up, praising god.’
something shivered in him as the word sin was spoken. tears sprang to his eyes again.
‘oh,’ he said, ‘i pray god, i pray the lord … to make me strong … to sanctify me wholly … andkeep me saved!’
‘yes,’ said elisha, ‘you keep that spirit, and i now the lord’s going to see to it that you gethome all right.’
‘it’s a long way,’ john said slowly, ‘ain’t it? it’s a hard way. it’s uphill all the way.’
‘you remember jesus,’ elisha said. ‘you keep your mind on jesus. he went that way—upthe steep side of the mountain—and he was carrying the cross, and didn’t nobody help him. hewent that way for us. he carried that cross for us.’
‘but he was the son of god,’ said john, ‘and he knew it.’
‘he knew it,’ said elisha, ‘because he was willing to pay the price. don’t you know it,johnny? ain’t you willing to pay the price?’
‘that song they sing,’ said john, finally, ‘if it costs my life—is that the price?’
‘yes.’ said elisha, ‘that’s the price.’
then john was silent, wanting to put the question another way. and the silence wascracked, suddenly, by an ambulance siren, and a crying bell. and they both look up as theambulance raced past them on the avenue on which no creature moved, save for the saints of godbehind them.
‘but that’s the devil’s price, too,’ said elisha, as silence came again. ‘the devil, he don’task for nothing less than your life. and he take it, too, and it’s lost for ever. for ever, johnny. youin darkness while you living and you in darkness when you dead. ain’t nothing but the love ofgod can make the darkness light.’
‘yes,’ said john, ‘i remember. i remember.’
‘yes,’ said elisha, ‘but you got to remember when the evil day comes, when the floodrises, boy, and looks like your soul is going under. you got to remember when the devil’s doing allhe can to make you forget.’
‘the devil,’ he said, frowning and staring, ‘the devil. how many faces is the devil got?’
‘he got as many faces,’ elisha said,’ as you going to see between now and the time you layyour burden down. and he got a lot more than that, but ain’t nobody seen them all.’
‘except jesus,’ john said then. ‘only jesus.’
‘yes,’ said elisha, with a grave, sweet smile, ‘that’s the man you got to call on. that’s theman who knows.’
they were approaching his house—his father’s house. in a moment he must leave elisha,step out from under his protecting arm, and walk alone into the house—alone with his mother andhis father. and he was afraid. he wanted to stop and turn to elisha, and tell him … something forwhich he found no words.
‘elisha——’ he began, and looked into elisha’s face. then: ‘you pray for me? please prayfor me?’
‘i been praying, little brother,’ elisha said, ‘and i sure ain’t going to stop praying now.’
‘for me,’ persisted john, his tears falling, ‘for me.’
‘you know right well,’ said elisa, looking at him, ‘i ain’t going to stop praying for thebrother what the lord done give me.’
then they reached the house, and paused, looking at each other, waiting. john saw that thesun was beginning to stir, somewhere in the sky; the silence of the dawn would soon give way tothe trumpets of the morning. elisha took his arm from john’s shoulder and stood beside him,looking backward. and john looked back, seeing the saints approach.
‘service is going to be mighty late this morning,’ elisha said, and suddenly grinned andyawned.
and john laughed. ‘but you be there,’ he asked, ‘won’t you? this morning?’
‘yes, little brother,’ elisha laughed, ‘i’m going to be there. i see i’m going to have to dosome running to keep up with you.’
and they watched the saints. now they all stood on the corner, where his aunt florencehad stopped to say good-bye. all the women talked together, while his father stood a little apart.
his aunt and his mother kissed each other, as he had seen them do a hundred times, and then hisaunt turned to look for them, and waved.
they waved back, and she started slowly across the street, moving, he thought withwonder, like an old woman.
‘well, she ain’t going to be out to service this morning, i tell you that,’ said elisha, andyawned again.
‘and look like you going to be half asleep,’ john said ‘now don’t you mess with me this morning,’ elisha said, ‘because you ain’t got so holy ican’t turn you over my knee. i’s your big brother in the lord—you just remember that.’
now they were on the near corner. his father and mother were saying good-bye to prayingmother washington, and sister mccandless, and sister price. the praying woman waved to them,and they waved back. then his mother and his father were alone, coming toward them‘elisha,’ said john, ‘elisha.’
‘yes,’ said elisha, ‘what you want now?’
john, staring at elisha, struggled to tell him something more—struggled to say—all thatcould never be said. yet: ‘i was down in the valley,’ he dared, ‘i was by myself down there. iwon’t never forget. may god forget me if i forget.’
then his mother and his father were before them. his mother smiled, and took elisha’soutstretched hand.
‘praise the lord this morning,’ said elisha. ‘he done give us something to praise him for.’
‘amen,’ said his mother, praise the lord!’
john moved up to the short, stone step, smiling a little, looking down on them. his motherpassed him, and started into the house.
‘you better come on upstairs,’ she said, still smiling, ‘and take off them wet clothes. don’twant you catching cold.’
and her smile remained unreadable; he could not tell what it hid. and to escape her eyes,he kissed her, saying; ‘yes, mama. i’m coming.’
she stood behind him, in the doorway, waiting.
‘praise the lord, deacon,’ elisha said. ‘see you at the morning service, lord willing.’
‘amen,’ said his father, ‘praise the lord.’ he started up the stone steps, staring at john,who blocked the way. ‘go on upstairs, boy,’ he said, ‘like your mother told you.’
john looked at his father and moved from his path, stepping down into the street again. heput his hand on elisha’s arm, feeling himself trembling, and his father at his back.
‘elisha,’ he said, ‘no matter what happens to me, where i go, what folks say about me, nomatter what anybody says, you remember—please remember—i was saved. i was there.’
elisha grinned, and looked up at his father.
‘he come through,’ cried elisha, ‘didn’t he, deacon grimes? the lord done laid him out,and turned him around and wrote his new name down in glory. bless our god!’
and he kissed john on the forehead, a holy kiss.
‘run on, little brother,’ elisha said. ‘don’t you get weary. god won’t forget you. youwon’t forget.’
the he turned away, down the long avenue, home. john stood still, watching him walkaway. the sun had come full awake. it was waking the streets, and the houses, and crying at the windows. it fell over elisha like a golden robe, and struck john’s forehead, where elisha hadkissed him, like a seal ineffaceable for ever.
and he felt his father behind him. and he felt the march wind rise, striking through hisdamp clothes, against his salty body. he turned to face his father—he found himself smiling, buthis father did not smile.
they looked at each other a moment. his mother stood in the doorway, in the long shadowsof the hall.
‘i’m ready,’ john said, ‘i’m coming. i’m on my way.’
the end