The Preacher's Marsh Read online

  “Now the war has ended, and he's back. He still wants to kill, and the war did him no good. We stay clear of that one.”

  “There are others?” he asked.

  “He has two brothers. Joshua is the eldest, nearly a man. He's married, and has moved in to town. He has a very young brother, Enoch. We don’t see the boy often. They keep him near the plantation house. Isaiah and his father manage the plantation.”

  Gideon moved his limbs one at a time, straightening both of his legs, and then his arms. Nothing seemed to be broken, and though he was sore, and felt the dressings on his wounds chaff slightly as he twisted and flexed, there was no permanent damage.

  “How bad is it?” he asked finally.

  Desdemona glanced at him and raised one eyebrow. “You'll live,” she said softly.

  “I meant my face,” he replied. He brought his hand up and touched the bandage. “There was blood. Elijah was there . . . is he?”

  “Elijah is fine,” she answered. She nodded toward the fire, and he turned again. Elijah was curled up in a blanket near the fire, sound asleep.

  “He’s been here all along. He and His mother helped me to get you out of the field, and some of the others made a litter of cotton bags. They dragged you here as gently as they could, but you are a big man. It took a long time, and he's tired.”

  “And my face?”

  She smiled and leaned closer to him. Gideon’s senses compressed into the space that encompassed the two of them so suddenly that the only sound he heard was the blood pulsing behind his ear. He breathed in her scent and met her gaze, and she reached out to brush the tips of her nails over his cheeks, to run them through his hair, and to draw him up slightly. He felt the warm, soft flesh of her thighs beneath him and they burned his flesh like fire.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but never formed the words. Her lips pressed to his, her fingers gripped his hair, and she kissed him. It was a long, slow, luxurious moment. Desdemona pulled away, but only slightly. He felt her studying him and closed his eyes, just for a moment. His breath was harsh, the air suddenly heavy and reluctant to pass through his lungs, and he felt giddy.

  Then she laid him back on her lap, and laughed. The sound was deep and throaty and primal. He remembered the clearing, and the fire. He caught the hint of the scent of the incense she’d burned in the perfume of her hair. He tasted the sliver of whatever it had been that she’d fed him by that fire on her lips and felt a brief sizzle in the back of his throat. His mind flashed with the brilliance of lightning on a single image. Interlocked, tumbled bones strewn across a mat of soil and grass.

  Then it was only her eyes, deep, and soft, and close.

  “It is customary in my faith to offer prayers of thanks for miracles,” he said softly.

  “And what would you be thankful for?” She asked.

  Her fingers were still in his hair, twisting and turning it gently. The touch was soothing, but left trails of heat. He glanced over to where Elijah lay sleeping.

  “There is time, preacher man,” she said teasingly. “Are you always in such a hurry to take advantage of your blessings?”

  He blushed, and she kissed him again. He pulled back, just for a moment.

  “I need to speak to them,” he said. “All of them. Everyone who picks cotton and lives in the camp. I need to let them know what has happened, and why. I want them to know that I am not leaving, and though any man who claimed not to be afraid would be a liar, I won’t let the Pope family prevent me from opening my church. I want to tell them that I will be here for them, that I will do anything I can to help make their lives better. It’s important that they know.”

  “What must they know?” she asked.

  “That not all white men are like the Popes, and Sheriff Hawkins. That God is with them, when they work, and when they sleep, when they love and when they pray. Do you pray, Desi?”

  It was a sudden intimacy, the shortening of her name, and it came to his lips unbidden. It felt right, but he felt her stiffen suddenly. She was very silent for a moment, and then melted beneath him.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Only my mother called me that,” she said softly. “No one else.”

  “I didn’t know,” he said.

  “It’s good,” she said, leaning down to wrap her arms around his shoulders. She rocked him like a child and stared off into the trees. “It is good to hear that name again, and it is good to hear it from you. I don’t think that you and I mean the same thing when we say the word prayer, but yes. I pray. I dream. There is no way that I could do otherwise.”

  “Will they come?” he asked. “Will they hear me?”

  “They'll come,” she answered. “They already respect you. They'll listen, too.”

  “And you?” he asked.

  “I'll be there,” she said softly. “But I've already heard.”

  She sat up and placed a hand on his heart. It took only a few moments for his eyes to grow heavy once again.

  He sat up slowly, and she helped him. She rose, laid a blanket out beside the fire, and he lay down on it. She curled in beside him, pulling a second blanket over them. Before he could think of anything further to say, he was asleep.

  He dreamed of endless rows of cotton, the pounding of hooves, blazing eyes and the red hot flames of a fire. Then the dreams faded into a haze of warmth and comfort and silent darkness.

  SIX

  Gideon grew strong over the next couple of months. He returned to the fields, ignored the pain, and healed himself through the work. He walked to the fields with Desdemona at his side, and he returned with her every evening. Twice a week, Wednesday night and Sunday morning, he taught in the small, ramshackle church. He started slowly, beginning with stories from the Old Testament and lessons from the Psalms and Proverbs. They leaned forward in their seats and listened carefully when he spoke, and when he led hymns in his deep, baritone voice they joined in.

  Desdemona sat in the rear of the church when he taught. She listened as the others did, but she watched him. They spent most days together, but by a Herculean effort, Gideon had not stayed with her after that single night, sleeping by the fire. He waited. He did not want to teach the people one thing and live a life that was another.

  When the cotton was in, and the winter approaching, he came to her on a Saturday morning, very early, when most of the camp was only beginning to rise and start the day. She was seated at her fire, an old iron pot filled with water just coming to a boil. Gideon sat beside her and stared into the flames. She didn’t look at him, but there was a smile curling the ends of her lips. He didn’t know if was just because of his presence, or if she sensed why he’d come.

  She added a small handful of rough-ground coffee beans to the water, and they watched together as the liquid swirled, swallowing the beans and emitting a wonderful aroma. She poured them each a cup, and for once, she avoided his eyes. He smiled, sipped his coffee, and watched the fire.

  “I don’t know your customs,” he said at last. “I know the way things are in a small town very far from here, and I have a passing knowledge of how things were in Biblical times, though I wonder sometimes if I know anything at all.”

  “Seems like you learn fast,” she said. She sipped her coffee and glanced at him furtively.

  “A man can spend his whole life learning things, experiencing things, and believing that he’s getting somewhere important,” Gideon went on. “He sees things the way he’s expected to, learns the ways of those around him and memorizes the rules so he can pass them on to new generations. A man hopes to have new generations to pass his truth on to, and there are rules for that, as well.”

  She said nothing, and he continued.

  “What I’m trying to say,” he told her, “Is that I’ve come to learn a new truth here – with you. I’ve come to understand that because a man learns things a certain way, or another man writes them down the way he’s read them all his life and passes that on isn’t enough to make a thing right. When the w
orld changes – and our world is changing, there’s no doubt of that, the rules have to change as well.

  “I’ve been preaching since I was a small boy. They found out I had a gift, an ability to string words together and bring people closer. I spoke at revivals. My mother took me from town to town one summer, speaking in tents and sleeping in barns, spreading the word of God. That’s what I knew then.”

  “Now?” she asked softly.

  “Now the lines aren’t so straight,” he said softly. “Or maybe they’re straight for the first time and stretching out further than they did before – actually reaching into the world. I was raised to believe a man grew up, found work, married, had children, and taught them to do the same. There were no Negro citizens in Random, Illinois. There were only Methodists and a very small group of Catholics, and even the Catholics were looked on with suspicion.

  “You got no slaves back in Random?” she asked. There was genuine surprise in her voice.

  “None,” he said. “It’s a very small place, and it was settled long ago by farmers and their families. They work their own land; they take care of their own crops. There are a great number of men and women in Random who have never seen a colored man or woman, and would be frightened for their lives if they did.”

  “Not you, though,” she said.

  “No, not me. I told you, my mother took me on the road with her. There were Negro families in a lot of the places we visited. Some places they came to the revivals. They stood off to the side, on their own, but they were there. A lot of places it was just like here, only with different work. There are a lot of folks back North who believe it is their duty to make things right to your people. Most of them believe this only so far as they can be involved without getting too close. Lip service is what I used to call it from the pulpit, though I was talking about service to the Lord at the time. They talk a good game, in other words. I was like that – it’s how I ended up on the road.

  “Somewhere along the way, things changed.”

  “You got a point to all this, preacher man?” Desdemona asked. Her hand trembled as she held her coffee, and Gideon reached out to lay his hand on her wrist and steady her.

  “I do,” he said softly.

  “When I came here, I was already changed. I’d seen things on the road, and experienced others, that told me we lived in a little make-believe world in Random. The God I thought I was serving either doesn’t exist, or was waiting patiently for me to stand up and walk into the world. The bake sales and the Sunday dress-up will continue without me, but the world…the world needs men of God with the courage to act on their principles. This country, this new world we’re building, needs men with the courage to stand up against Evil. I wish I was stronger. I wish I had a small army of righteous men and women standing behind me to face down men like Sheriff Hawkins, and Reverend Cumby.

  “What I’ve discovered though is that I’m just a man. I’m a man like any other, and if I have work to do for God, I have to do it as a man. Setting myself aside as if I had some special dispensation, some right to the truth that others don’t share – that was the sort of thing Reverend Cumby would understand, or the Methodist minister in town. Even the Catholic Priest back home in Random would nod his head and say I was right to take my place at the side of my God. A shepherd, looking out for his sheep. It’s what they all do – it’s what they understand. Without that belief, it’s hard to face a room full of men and women week after week, telling them they have to act a certain way and believe a certain thing or face a pit of fire they couldn’t possibly believe in – because if they did, they’d listen, and they’d act, and they’d do it more than once a week.”

  Gideon turned to face Desdemona. She looked up at him, her expression more fragile than he’d ever seen it, as if she were a bird, perched for flight, or a leaf ready to blow away in the wind.

  “I’ve learned more in theses past three months,” Gideon said, “than I did in the first twenty-five years of my life. One thing I’ve learned is that there are things that are real, and there are things that only seem real until you step into them and live through them.

  “You mean the world to me, Desi,” he said. “I lay down every night and I start to pray, but I end up thinking about you. I think about whether you are thinking about me. I think about how you dragged me out of that cotton – twice – how you took me in when the people who should have been my own would have beaten me to death. I think about what I saw out by the swamp, and how, no matter how right and real my faith feels, it has never shown me the types of things that you have shown me. I should feel as if those things are evil. I should want to convert you, to save your soul and drag you kicking and screaming into my church to have the dark spirits driven from your soul.

  “All I want is to hold you to my heart and keep you there forever. What I’m saying, Desi…what I’m asking, is – will you marry me?”

  She trembled so violently that her teeth chattered. Her eyes were wide and tears spilled out of the corners to swirl gently down her cheeks. The cup in her hand fell to the ground, but neither of them paid any attention to it.

  “You can’t,” she said.

  He took her hands, both of them, and gripped them tightly. She pulled back, a sudden jerk, but he held her, and with a small cry, maybe negation, maybe something else, she fell into his arms. He drew her close and wrapped his arms around her, pinning her to his chest.

  “I can, and I will…if you will,” he said. “I have never needed anything in my life. I thought I did. I thought I had been desperate, and hungry, and in pain, but here I’ve found that pain can be overcome, and hunger can make you stronger, but desperation only comes when you need something to breathe – when the blood in your veins tries to press out and find something just out of reach. Be my wife.”

  She laid her head on his shoulder. He felt her shaking it, and he reached up, ran his fingers into her hair, and stilled her. He kissed the top of her head gently and she pressed more tightly into his arms. They sat there for a very long time, saying nothing at all. The flames of the fire crackled, hissed, and died slowly to coals. The cups lay forgotten on the ground. The sun rose slowly, and the camp came to life.

  No one interrupted them. Elijah came to the edge of the clearing, stood in the shadow of a large Elm tree, and watched for a few minutes. He smiled a sly, secret smile, and melted back into the trees.

  After what seemed like hours, Gideon drew back and rose to his feet. He held out his hand. Desdemona’s gaze was on the ground at his feet. Her hair fell like a dark shower that covered her shoulders, and her face, shielding her eyes. She sat very still, but he held his ground.

  Just as he was about to turn, walk into the trees and never return, she shook her hair back and raised her eyes to his. Her eyes were still rimmed in tears, but her lips had curved into a delicate smile. He wasn’t used to seeing her like this – vulnerable – and it melted his heart.

  Then she took his hand. She clasped it in both of her own and rose, very slowly, so that she stood close against him. She rose up onto her toes and pressed her lips to his ear.

  “Yes, Gideon, I will marry you. Whether your God strikes us down, or the Popes do it for him. Whether the spirits of the swamp burn us in our sleep or send the bones of the dead walking to drag us away, I am yours. There is no going back from a moment like this. This is not a question you’ve given me…there was never a choice.”

  “I know,” Gideon answered.

  Then, without another word, he turned. He held one of her hands firmly in his and he walked away from the fire. The others were winding out toward the fields, a few of them glancing over their shoulders. Gideon paid no attention to them. He walked through the woods toward his clearing, and the church.

  Desdemona made no attempt to pull back, or to divert him. She walked beside him through the trees, drawing closer so that their hips brushed and her scent wafted up and around him.

  “There is no one to perform the ceremony,” Gideon said as they wa
lked. He didn’t look at her, but she sensed how aware he was and felt him tremble when their skin brushed. “I don’t believe Reverend Cumby will come out here to oversee this union, and I’ve never heard of a man of God performing his own marriage. Tell me what your people do.”

  They stepped out into the clearing beside his church. “What do they do out here in the woods when they make a family? When they are in love? Do you perform a ceremony? Do they just come together, and everyone knows? Does Reverend Cumby actually marry them, or someone else – you?”

  Desdemona shook her head. This time, she took the lead. She pulled him by their joined hands toward his small shack behind the church. She walked slowly, making sure that he had time to see her ahead of him, her hips swaying a little more than necessary, and her smile dark and hungry.

  There were no more words. He opened the door for her, and she stepped inside. By the time he followed, and the canvas flap slid closed behind them, she was on his bed. Her dress fell away as if melting form her form and he stood watching. She arched her back, like he’d seen her do in the clearing, only this time her eyes were clear and her arms reached for him.

  He slid down beside her and she worked quickly at his belt, his pants and shift, and then his body. They kissed, and the world fell away, and in the Heavens he imagined he heard the soft voices of angels, or the dark voices of ghost, and knew that it did not matter.

  In his ear, she whispered, “I do.”

  And it was sealed.

  * * *

  They weren’t easy years. Word of the marriage trickled out to the gentry of Old Mill, and to the Pope family. Whenever they could, the Popes caused trouble for Gideon. If they caught him alone in the field, or the woods, they teased him or beat him, and they were constantly on the watch for Desdemona.

  In some warped way, they believed she must be responsible for the union – that she must have used her swamp witch powers to steal the mind of a man of God and bind him to her will. No other explanation made sense to them, and Reverend Cumby, stung by the fact none of his freedmen congregation came to hear him when he pulled his wagon out to the fields, fed the rumor at every opportunity. He talked of demons, and of possession, and more than once he was on the verge of firing up a group of locals to take matters into their own hands…but each time someone interceded.