The last thing my Granny gave my mama was the promise that if she kept her eyes closed and prayed silently in her mind, the crow would give Big Mary wings and she would fly away. She asked Little Mary to call on her whenever she was needed. And held her tight. Then she was gone to see her earthly judge, jury and executioners. She didn’t make a fuss. She was calm. They were ready.
Even though they couldn’t cross the threshold of my Granny’s home, and truthfully felt uneasy even standing in the clearing before it––feet shifting, sheets itching––my Granny simply walked outside and let them take her. Because she needed all eyes and attention on her, and none on Little Mary. Little Mary didn't have the gift of sight, and posed no real threat to the Devil, but there was no guarantee that once they got to sacrificing they could ever stop at just one. At the very least, it bought my mama time and some small chance to run.
Ferguson corralled a few strong audience members to hoist Big Mary onto the rickety wooden stand, to rock before them, and they leashed her to the old tree. The stage was set.
The Devil stood before her like a preacher before the life size Corpus, and started to arrange his language carefully into his favorite sermon. There was a Word in there, loaded and hidden, waiting to go off. And unconsciously the clearing strained to listen for the shot.
“A soldier, a convict and a nigger are standing on a bridge with the Devil,” he said, grinning from ear to long ear, setting the scene. “The Devil appeals to their good Christian hearts. He asks, ‘Aren’t you tired of these tragedies? Go on home to your Heavenly Father!’ So the soldier jumps to meet his maker and end his grief. Only the convict and the nigger are left. The Devil appeals to their good Christian conscience. He asks, ‘Aren’t you ashamed of all you’ve done in this life to make Our Father weep?’ The convict jumps to meet his maker and end his guilt.”
As the Devil built to his grand climax, the spectators’ mouths watered for that Sunday crucifixion. The aura wafting off the congregation was heavy with sweat-brined, chew-stained delight. Though the tree and its old, invisible roots wept not to taste the blood of another child! Though the earth could not choke down any more crimson and copper! The dark recesses within each hollow man demanded the suffering, egged on the pain.
“Now, niggers are different,” said the Devil. “Even this one,” and he pointed at Big Mary, who was still rocking. A crow cawed loudly above her in the tree, catching the Devil and his audience off guard. He fumbled to catch the Word. Big Mary closed her eyes as more crows began to fill the branches of the tree, and cover the gaps in the ground at their feet. She began to hum from somewhere low inside. The Devil knew he needed to work faster.
“What the nigger lacks is a soul! Something no white man, Christian or Fallen, citizen or convict, should ever take for granted.” And the men in the clearing were briefly touched by the thought of possessing some inalienable treasure that set them apart and lifted them up, made only more tantalizing by the alleged fact that it had been withheld from everyone and everything else! This was all it took for the Devil to convince any of them, anywhere, to pucker their hearts to him, and accept anything that he might place inside.
What they couldn’t see was that he was mainly invested in the taking. What they had in the offering plate was that God given treasure, and what he gave them in return was the story. After all: the Devil is a lie! (And the truth ain’t in him!)
If you aren't careful, and taking the time to know your own self well, Devil will tell you what you want while he siphons what you have. It’s an unequal exchange. It leaves you desperate, thirsting, like a Samaritan wiping the sweat from your brow while feeding you salt from his hand. An assassination laced in intimacy is just called assassination. What looks like love is just slow death. Just raw hunger masquerading in a fine suit. Have you ever seen the Devil underneath his masquerade?
And what makes a conjure woman more cunning than John, more cunning than the Devil, show her hand? Maybe she’d seen more than just the monster in its costume. And maybe the Devil had every reason to be afraid, even now while his enemy looked defeated.
Now, as Big Mary’s eyes were still shut. And the Devil, watching her start to vibrate with her humming just like the tree blackened with feathers above, let his ghostly fingers brush the tips of her shoes.
“The nigger is willfulness run riot, and every good Christian shepherd is forced to confront that evil however he can. But the Devil…he knows how to appeal to that wickedness in them. He counts on their natural disobedience. And he uses it against them. So all he says to the nigger is…” He gazed around at them in their feverish anticipation. Feet were stamping, backs were clapped. Some bent over to grab their knees and squeeze their eyes to keep the pleasure from leaking out.
Big Mary saw a hood peel off from the pack with his torch, in the direction of the house where Little Mary was hiding.
“…don’t…” The Devil’s voice was on the trigger.
She stepped suddenly forward toward the edge of the platform, and it swung like a ship on a wave. The crows all cawed in unison. The lone torch bearer turned back to the noise, his devilish intent already fading…
“JUMP!” the Devil bellowed.
And Big Mary dove, and the crows dove or rose with her. Such a cloud of black wings and such a thick wave of sound the crowd had never known before, and hasn’t since. The memory of that day for almost every witness lives behind a veil too dark and dense to pierce. But they know that afterwards there was no more Big Mary. Something else, too, had been missing from somewhere inside each of them. Determined not to press too hard on the veil––to face grief, admit guilt, to process that great aching absence––they were content to let amnesia lay undisturbed.
Little Mary had retreated from the door to the crawlspace under the floor and so could only hear the flight of her mother. A million swarming wings and then nothing. She didn’t stop praying.
Years later there was me. Caught in the caul like a fish in a net. Like a slumberer in its dream. She yanked me out, and said the magic words her mama had given her. And I opened my eyes.
The year after my parents passed, my Granny visited me in a dream. She stood in the clearing with a giant pair of black wings behind her. As I approached, the dark bird took off into the sky in a great blur, but she remained firmly planted in the ground with a wreath of vines and purple blooms in her hair, arms extended toward me. “We were just talking about you,” she said, laughing like soft thunder and gentle rain.
“Who?” I asked, staring up into the empty canopy of branches and the full moon with all her sparkling children.
“Conqueror,” she answered. “John.”
“My daddy’s name was John,” I said.
“I know.” Her eyes glittered. “And did you know he could fly?”
“Will he come back?” My throat squeezed around the question, and tears pricked the backs of my eyes.
“Want to know how he beat the Devil?” she asked. I nodded. “After he helped me fly away, the crow came back for your mama. The Devil got word about the second Mary. Souls travel through a bloodline, and they disappear for a short while behind the veil, but they pop up again like fresh stitches. So do their gifts. The Devil had to make sure he cut that line…” A warm breeze shook itself around us. Somewhere in the moonlight a spirit was laughing. “And John beat him there…”
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