In Blackfoot county, layin’ on the edge of spring water creek, flowin’ into Ol’ Virginia river, glidin’ through Mama Marsh’s lake, gulped down by Atlantic herself, flies were always the first sign that somewhere, somewhere dug deep beneath Blackfoot soil, somethin’ or a someone soon be rottin’.
The roaches feedin’ on Grandpapa’s rockin’ chair knew it well, Death’s trail they’d say was a comin, and a comin’ quick. The pigeons and the dust knew it, too. Conversatin’ as they figures turned to silk, streamin’ through time’s caleidoscope, migratin’ into anotha eon.
The woman named Magdalene, by her mother, and Mad, by men who craved passive tongues and chokin’ throats, was the next to sense the decay. Cradled in her Ol’ Magnolia, Mangrove forest with cinders of voodoo and rage traced between her Louisiana lips, Mad Maiden Magdalene pulled a prophecy, stifled between muffled screams ‘bout a devil’s lingerin’ and her mama’s front porch, from the gapin’ of her throat, Mad Maiden Magdalene warned of a fatal stench leakin’ from the faucets of Blackfoot’s kitchen sink, slippin’ down our throats, and sinkin’ into our skin.
From the nunneries, cloisters, and cathedrals, Pastor Goliath and Miss Sarah bellowed Blackfoot’s impendin’ rapture from three spankin’ new charcoal-hued boomboxes paid for by members of the congregation. Poor folks too poor to know that gettin’ on palm and knee in the skinniest crooks of their half-fulfilled homes searchin’ for a little change here and there to finance their salvation could not save them from what was comin’. With his lips twistin’ crooked, Pastor Goliath preached of heinous herbs and gases puffed by bulked-up, bull-like black boys and girls murkin’ their minds into nothinness. And Pastor and the Mrs. blamed gun-strapped youth raised by no-minded women and absentee fathers for the county’s impendin’ doom.
But none of us truly believed somethin’ had died, or was in the process of dyin’, or was perhaps already dead but still hurtin’, until the children started wailin’.
It began in the nighttime, like any bad dream, casting a score of bleakness thunderin’ over poor lil’ Timothy Jackson. Through dark hours that boy stayed quakin’ and shiverin’ and when mornin’ woke not his mama or his papa or his lil blue bear could settle the piercin’ hymns echoin’ within that boy’s stomach, right up his throat, and scraped off his tongue.
Death was here, she came through the babies, and she wasn’t plannin’ on leavin’ anytime soon.
Soon Blackfoot became apocalyptic, mamas keepin’ cryin’ babies home from school, leavin’ their steel-locked homes only to raid, half-deserted grocery aisles for the last few cans of soup and cartons of milk left.
Outside of Blackfoot, people was awful calm for the end of the world. In fact, people seemed to be happier than normal, steppin’ outside set boundaries to try small talk with strangers in homes beside their own, homes that had been there and would be there long after the temporary had passed on. Even as Blackfoot County residents raced against the clock, or a clock perhaps (which had been movin’ at quite the regular pace for the rapture) time in the South seemed to slow completely. It may have been the summer heat or the devil’s laugh, as mama suggested, but it seemed to me that not even the end of the world was as ready for the end of the world as Blackfoot County.
In the midst of all the chaos, few dared to search for the rottin’ causin’ mass redemption all around town. Various conspiracy groups put together by off sectors of the church and bored school kids, began a guessin’ game ‘bout just what was decomposin’ beneath the soles of our feet. Some said it was an old goat, killed for food then thrown into spring water creek, its carcass mistook for a petite, somewhat deformed 15-year-old black girl who fell in weeks earlier. They said the goat had yet to be eaten, for the foolish kids who knew nothin’ of starvin’ or dyin’ had found a wanderin’ mother hen and decided to take her life instead, wastin’ the stolen life of the ol’ goat. And now it was seekin’ revenge. Though they found evidence of neither claim, of the ol’ goat or of the fallin’ of the young black girl. See, they did find the body in spring water creek, indeed the body of a young black girl. They found several in fact and ain't none of them came up showin’ signs of fallin’ in. Though in each girl, whose face could still be deciphered, they carried a look of a gruesome sadness and disappointment. Apoplectic rage their mamas seethed as they went to go fetch barely-lived daughters out the creek.
Mad Maiden Magdalene, while swimmin’ in Mama Marshes lake, claimed it was the soul of Ol’ Joe’s wife, the first wife, whose name he had erased along with her life the day she drowned in Ol’ Virginia river. Magdalene, with the peak of her toes, dipped in the lake as if summonin’ the nameless wife’s truths through her skin, said she had come at first seekin’ closure, but after seein’ the way Ol’ Joe scrambled like a witherin’ rat in the wake of her arrival, decided she wanted more. Wanted to see the man who took her name, her mama’s name and grandmama’s name, shrink into nothin’ but fear and flattened lungs. And that night Ol’ Joe couldn’t stop dreamin’ of that first wife’s face. Shirley, please, the dust recalled him beggin’ as he fought to open his eyes and shut out his demons.
But I wasn’t convinced, it couldn’t explain why the children was sufferin’, why they'd be screamin’ for three days straight then fallin’ silent as if nothin’ had happened. And no one could explain that. Why pain extended to children, their innocence destroyed by our happenins. Aint Black folks allowed the liberated life from the misdoin’s of our ancestors, the way ‘merica is? And durin’ the wailin’, we couldn't make out what was bein’ said. A sort of rhythm to their tears there was, in each a child a different hymn that some said matched the cries of our forebears as if they was recitin’ a psalm of terror when they arrived in this strange land centuries before. And no one could argue against that.
While Papa hadn’t said much of nothin’ ‘bout Blackfoot’s endin’, one night when the stars came out to dance and mama put her ol’ red dress on, movin’ her hips the way she did only when home was quiet and lonely and the mirror more acceptin’ and lovin’ than human eyes, he said Blackfoot was comin’ on a spiritual rapture. One that all folks whose souls had been through wartime, who’d seen ghosts in eyes still breathin’, and children with faces long and sorrowful know of. Bigger than God, than man. Papa said it was about the human spirit crumblin’ and without foundations to rebuild, Papa said we all might as well dig the graves now.
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